


Semi-Charmed Life

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2018-11-13 01:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 56,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: Some short Follow You Down -verse fics that don't quite fit in regular chapters.Previously (probably) posted on tumblr.





	1. Monster Mash

**Author's Note:**

> Some short Follow You Down -verse fics that don't quite fit in regular chapters.  
> Previously (probably) posted on tumblr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Angband crew spent Halloween (2016).

"You have got to be kidding,” said Thuringwethil, eyeing the bag in Melkor’s hand.

“When it comes to Halloween,” said Melkor, pushing open the door of his office, “I don’t kid.”

“Yeah, no shit,” said Thuringwethil, looking around the office with an air of mild disapproval.  The entire office—every wall, window, and surface—had been plastered with decorations. “It looks like a goddamn Party City in here.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

 “Not to you.”

“Seriously, Melkor,” she said, pushing the fake cobwebs out of the way as she stepped gingerly through the door.  “What else could you—”She stopped, gasping in surprise, as a skeleton dropped from the ceiling, eyes flashing red as its mouth chittered out a mechanical cackle. “Jesus Christ,” she said, swatting at the plastic bones and glaring at Melkor.  “Is that what I keep hearing?”

“Either him,” said Melkor, setting the bag on his desk, “or her.”  He waved his hand at an oversized plush spider, which dutifully dropped down from its web with a piercing shriek.

“Her?” said Thuringwethil, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve been calling her Shelob,” said Melkor, grinning fondly at the spider as it returned to its place in the web.

“Why?”

Melkor shrugged.  “Sounds like a good name for a spider.”

“Uh-huh,” said Thuringwethil.  “So you’re naming your decorations now?”

“Sure,” said Melkor.  “That one’s Shelob,” he said, pointing at the spider again.  “This one’s Casper.”  He pointed at a cardboard ghost that was taped to the wall.  “And that one,” he said, pointing over her shoulder at the skeleton, “is Fёanor.”

 “You are so crass.”

“Pretty consistently,” he said, grinning.  “So are you all ready for tonight?”

“You have no idea,” she said.  “This week dragged.”

“No kidding.  All this work has been cutting into my celebrations.”

 “Right.”

  “It has,” he insisted.  “I had to limit myself to one movie per night this week.”

  “Tragic,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “Looks like you made up for it in decorating, though.  So what’s in the bag?”

“Oh, just a little fun,” said Melkor, pulling out a bag of small plastic spiders.

 “What are those for?”

“Gothmog and I are going to throw them out the window at people on the sidewalk.”

“Seriously?”

“Are you really surprised?”

“If some old lady falls and busts her ass because you threw a spider at her, I am officially not your lawyer.”

“Wouldn’t that be illegal?”

“I’m not a public defender.  I’m under no legal obligation to defend you.”

“But you’re under contract.”

She snorted.  “You really need to read those things before you sign them.”

“That’s what my lawyer is for.”

“Yeah, well, your lawyer is off the clock in an hour, so watch yourself.”

“Where are you off to so early?”

“Home,” she said.  “I have to get ready for tonight.”

“Got everything ready for your costume?”

“I think so.”

 “What are you going as again?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

 “Aw, come on.”

“Nope,” she said firmly.  “You can wait like everyone else.”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

“I got paid today.”

“I’ll buy your drinks all night.”

She snorted.  “I worked there for six years,” she said.  “Didn’t pay for drinks then, and I’m sure as hell not paying for them now.”

“You’re the worst,” he pouted.

“You tell me that, like, three times a day.  It kinda loses its edge.”

“What are you two bickering about now?” asked Gothmog, wandering into Melkor’s office.  “Jesus,” he said, looking around.  “You got enough tacky Halloween shit in here, boss?”

“You two are just jealous of my holiday spirit,” Melkor sniffed.

Gothmog snorted.  “Yeah, right. You ready for tonight?”

“Dude,” said Melkor, “I’ve been ready for months.  You know this is my favorite holiday.”

“No,” Thuringwethil muttered.  “Really?”

“Shut up,” said Melkor.  “I haven’t gotten to celebrate properly for three years.”

“If that was a play for sympathy,” she said, “then it failed.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy.  It’s going to be a blast.”

“What time did you want to get there?” asked Gothmog.

“When does it open?” Melkor asked Thuringwethil.

“Seven,” she said, “but I don’t want to get there earlier than eight-thirty.”

“Why not?’

“Do you remember three years ago?” she said.  “I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t.”

“I do,” he said.  “Well, parts of it, anyway.”

“Like the part where you got completely shitfaced an hour after the party started?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Or,” she said, “the part where you did eight shots of tequila in ten minutes and tried to punch the bartender when he cut you off?”

“Well he—”

“How about the part where you puked in the piss trough in the bathroom?” added Gothmog.  “And in both sinks.  And then passed out in front of the door so no one could get in?”

“In my defense,” said Melkor, “it was my unofficial going-away party.”

“Right,” said Thuringwethil.  “I always celebrate going to prison by having to get my stomach pumped.”

“Hey,” said Melkor.  “They pushed my intake date back by three days, so you two can just suck it.”

“Do I even want to know what the three of you are talking about?” asked Mairon from the doorway.

Thuringwethil rolled her eyes.  “We were just remembering how Melkor—”

“Forget that shit,” said Melkor.  “It’s over.  We need to focus.”

“On what?” asked Mairon.

“On winning,” said Melkor.

“What are we winning?”

“The costume contest, dummy.”

“What contest?”

“Oh my God,” said Melkor, dramatically pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re killing me.”

Mairon looked at Thuringwethil.  “Do I even want to know?”

“No,” she said firmly.

“Every year,” said Melkor, “every goddamn year I enter that costume contest.”

“And every year,” said Gothmog, grinning, “he loses.”

“And then promptly loses his shit,” said Thuringwethil.

“Not this year,” said Melkor.  “This year, I’m going to win.”

“What’s your costume?” asked Mairon.

Melkor snorted.  “Yeah, right. Get your own ideas, pal.”

“Yeah, like I’m trying to steal costume ideas from you.”

“So you already have yours planned out?”

“Sure,” said Mairon.  “I’m going to be an engineer getting his thirtieth hour of overtime this week. Scary, huh?”

“Uh-uh,” said Melkor.  “No way. You’re not staying in tonight.”

“Want to bet?”

“No friend of mine is sitting at work on the holiest day of the year.”

“Holiest, huh?  In whose estimation?”

“Mine,” said Melkor.  “You know, the guy who signs your paychecks.  So if you want time and a half for the twenty-odd hours of overtime you already worked this week, I suggest you get your ass ready to party tonight.”

“You can’t legally deny me overtime pay that I earned.  It’s in my contract.”

“Legally, no.  But illegally?  I bet I can find a way to make it happen.  Wanna try me?”

Mairon narrowed his eyes at Melkor, who defiantly held his gaze. Finally, Mairon sighed.  He looked over at Gothmog and Thuringwethil.  “I’m going to this stupid party, aren’t I?”

“’Fraid so,” said Gothmog, grinning.  “But hey, it’s half-off cover if you wear a costume, and we drink all night for free.  You could do worse for a Friday night.”

“Exactly,” said Melkor.  “So get your shit together, and I’ll see you at eight.”

                                                         ***

Thuringwethil pulled her car into an open space and killed the engine. “Jesus,” said Mairon, looking distastefully out the window at the bar across the street.  “I can hear the bass all the way over here.”

“Typical,” said Thuringwethil, pulling down the visor to analyze her reflection in the mirror.  “Wait until we get inside.”

“But I like my hearing,” said Mairon.

“Oh, relax,” she said, turning her head from side to side.  “You spend a good three quarters of every day at the office.  You can stand to miss one night.”

“I don’t know if that’s technically true.”

“Well I do,” she said decisively, snapping the visor back into place and unbuckling her seat belt.  “You work too hard, Mai.  You deserve a little fun.”  She opened the door and climbed out onto the asphalt, hoisting herself carefully onto her dangerously high stilettos.  

Mairon followed suit, slamming the door behind him as he gazed toward the brightly lit building with more than a little trepidation.  “You and I have different definitions of fun,” he muttered.

“And how’s yours been working out for you, you little ball of stress?”

“Fair point,” Mairon conceded.

“Come on,” said Thuringwethil, grinning.  “Let’s go find our idiot friends before they cause any real trouble.”

Mairon laughed and followed Thuringwethil across the parking lot, the clicking of her heels against the pavement soon lost in the ever-loudening thump of the music coming toward them.  They crossed the street ahead of an approaching car, Thuringwethil darting across the pavement with more agility than should have been possible for someone wearing six inch stilettos.  The men in the car whistled as she passed, but she ignored them, beckoning for Mairon to hurry.  

They made their way along the rope barrier that contained the line for the club, walking between the pools of light that spilled from the streetlights onto the sidewalk.  Halfway up the line, two figures stood leaning against a lamp post, passing a cigarette back and forth, the smoke mingling with the misting of their breath against the cool night air.  “Hey Mairon,” said Thuringwethil, leading him toward them, “get a load of these two assholes.”

“Who you callin’ an asshole, you—”Gothmog turned around and stopped short, looking Thuringwethil up and down.  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he swore, as Melkor whistled in appreciation. “Thil, if you want me to be the friend that wards off creeps for you at the bar, you could at least try not to make my job so goddamn hard.”

Thuringwethil laughed and stepped into the light.  She towered on thin black stilettos, legs rising farther than seemed possible to where they were finally covered by the short hem of a burgundy dress, the velvet snug against the delicate curve of her hips. A black cape swirled around her waist, the collar turned high against the wind.  She grinned at Gothmog, blood-red lips pulling back over her sharp white teeth. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, freed at last from its perpetual knot atop her head.

“You know,” she said, looking over Gothmog and raising an eyebrow, “I could say the same to you.”

Gothmog laughed, looking down the bare expanse of his chest to the tattered shorts he wore.  He ran his hand along the curve of his skull, hair buzzed short beneath his fingers. “What?” he said, grinning.  “I’m the Hulk.”

“Technically,” said Mairon, “I think you’re Bruce Banner—but, like, right after he quits being the Hulk.”

“No way,” said Gothmog.  “I’m the Hulk.”

“The Hulk’s green,” said Mairon.

“Artistic license,” said Gothmog, and he laughed.

“Anyway,” said Melkor, “I don’t think you get to criticize.  You didn’t even wear a costume, asshole.”

“Sure I did,” said Mairon.  “I’m a scientist.”  He straightened the lapels of his lab coat for emphasis.

“You literally took that lab coat from your office,” said Gothmog.  

“You’re such a cheater,” said Melkor.

“I’m resourceful,” said Mairon.  “Like a good scientist.”

“You’re lame.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mairon countered.  “What are you wearing?  Your prison jumpsuit?”

“It’s a flight suit, you idiot.”

“Oh yeah?  And what are you supposed to be?”

Melkor pulled out a pair of aviators from his pocket and slid them over his eyes, the light glinting off the polished lenses as he raised his chin. “I’m the Ice Man,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing both thumbs toward his chest.

“The what?”

“The Ice Man,” Melkor repeated, frowning.  Mairon shrugged.  “From _Top Gun_?”

“I got nothing,” said Mairon.

“You know, _Top Gun_. With the navy, and the jets, and the—“He made the _pew pew_ noise universally understood to indicate gunfire.  Mairon shrugged, and Melkor stared at him, incredulous.  “You’ve never seen _Top Gun_?”

“Nope.”

Melkor made a noise halfway between affront and disgust.  “Why do I even put up with you?”

“I mean, how long do you have?”

“You’re such an asshole,” said Melkor, shoving him gently.  

“Takes one to know one,” said Mairon, laughing.

“Jesus Christ,” Gothmog complained.  “Can you two not?  Or can you at least wait until I get a couple drinks in me so I don’t feel as bad when I puke?”

“I think we can arrange that,” said Thuringwethil.  She turned on her heel and walked toward the door, waving at the bouncer as she approached.  He grinned and unhooked the rope that blocked off the entrance, standing aside to let them pass.  

“Long time no see, Thuringwethil,” he said, nodding at her.

“Once a year is about all I can manage,” she said, pulling open the door.

“Gothmog!” said the bouncer, clapping him on the back.  “You wanna work the front end with me?  For old time’s sake?”

“And miss out on a night of free booze?” said Gothmog, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder.  “Hell no, buddy.”

The bouncer grinned, but his smile faded to a scowl as Melkor approached the line.  “I thought you were in prison,” he said, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I got out,” said Melkor.

“Shame.”

“Aw, come on,” said Melkor, grinning.  “You know you missed me, big guy.”

The bouncer jabbed a meaty finger toward Melkor’s chest.  “You puke in my bathroom again,” he said, “and I’ll make you eat it.”

“Definitely not into that,” said Melkor, grinning.  He took hold of Mairon’s hand and pulled him forward. “Come on, Mai,” he said.  “Before he really gets mad.”

The four of them headed into the bar, and the crowd let out an instinctive roar of disapproval as they watched the four of them cut the line. Melkor turned toward them, raising both middle fingers in farewell, and darted into the cool, dark haze that awaited.

“Dear God,” said Mairon, shouting to be heard above the music.  

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Melkor shouted back, grinning.  

“Not the word I would’ve picked.”

Melkor laughed.  “Let’s get you a drink,” he said decisively, “and see if you change your mind.”

The bartender squealed when she saw Thuringwethil, abandoning the line of people crowding against the bar to swoop over to where she stood.  “Oh my God!” she said, pounding her palms excitedly on the top of the bar.  “Thil! I thought you were never coming back!”

“We were on hiatus,” said Thuringwethil.  “You know, while this piece of shit was locked up.”  She threw an elbow into Melkor’s ribs to emphasize her point.  

The bartender gave Melkor a look of disdain.  “You could’ve come without him,” she said.  “This year, too.”

Thuringwethil laughed.  “I’ll try to keep an eye on him, okay?”

“Fair enough,” said the bartender, turning toward the back and picking up a glass.  “You still like a gin martini?”

“Dirty as you can make it,” said Thuringwethil.

“Hot,” said Gothmog.

The bartender gave him a lethal glare.  “If you were anyone else, I’d slap that shit-eating grin right off your face.”

“But since it’s me,” said Gothmog, “you’re going to make me a trash can.”

“You’re going to need a trash can,” she said, placing the martini glass in front of Thuringwethil and turning back to select a half dozen bottles from the shelves.  

“That’s the point,” said Gothmog.

“You might as well make it two,” said Melkor, “and plan to keep ‘em coming.”  She gave him the finger, but she pulled out a second glass nonetheless.  Melkor turned to Mairon.  “Let me guess,” he said.  “One wimpy little cocktail, single shot, followed by an elaborate spiel about how you should get back to work?”

Mairon rolled his eyes.  “We could skip the drink and get right to it, if you want.”

“How come you’re always so hell bent on getting back to the office?”

“I don’t know,” said Mairon, raising an eyebrow.  “Maybe it’s because I actually care about getting our work done?”

“Or,” said Melkor, “maybe you’re just a little bitch who can’t hold your liquor, and you don’t want me to embarrass you.”

Mairon tilted his chin and looked up at Melkor, a strange glint in his eye.  “You wanna bet?”

“What, that I can outdrink you?”  Melkor snorted.  “Yeah, I’ll take that bet.”

“Fine,” said Mairon, nodding slowly.  “You’re on.”  He turned toward the bar and caught the bartender’s eye.  “Another trash can, please.  And like he said—keep ‘em coming.”

                                                             ***

“Weak,” said Mairon, watching Gothmog lift the can of Red Bull.  The energy drink fizzed as it hit the alcohol remaining in the glass, the liquid level rising dangerously toward the rim.

Gothmog chugged a third of it and belched, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  “What?” he demanded.  “That’s how you’re supposed to drink it.”

Melkor flipped the can out of his own drink and downed it in a few big gulps. He took a breath, letting it out in a quick huff as he shook his head.  “No, man,” he said, grinning.  “You chug the Red Bull on its own.  You get a bigger buzz.”

“I’ve had about all the buzz I can handle,” said Gothmog.  

“Lightweight,” said Melkor.  

“Dude,” said Gothmog.  “It’s not the alcohol.  It’s the caffeine.  I feel like I’m bouncing off the fuckin’ walls here.”

“You’re such a wimp.  I mean, look at Mairon.  He’s perfectly fine, and he’s tiny.”

“I’m not tiny,” said Mairon indignantly.

“That,” said Gothmog, ignoring him, “is an unfair comparison. Mai’s an addict—his caffeine tolerance is way higher than mine.”

“I’m right here, you know,” said Mairon reproachfully.

“Whatever,” said Melkor.  “You’re still a lightweight.”

“And you’re an asshole,” said Gothmog.  He slid his stool back from the table and stood up, wobbling slightly. “Three more, then?” he said, already walking away.

“If you can make it to bar,” said Melkor.

They watched as Gothmog weaved his way toward the bar, throwing his arm around Thuringwethil and grinning as he slid into the occupied seat beside her.  “What an asshat,” said Melkor, snickering.

“You know,” said Mairon thoughtfully.  “You make an awful lot of jokes about my size.”

“To be fair,” said Melkor, “you are like, half the size of a normal human.”  He raised his glass to his lips and drained the last ounce of alcohol into his mouth.

“Funny,” said Mairon.  “I didn’t hear any complaints about my size last night.”

Melkor choked, sputtering liquid onto the table in front of him.  “Jesus Christ,” he said, pounding himself on the chest and coughing.  “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me.”

Mairon raised an eyebrow.  “Why’s that?”

“You can’t say shit like that to me public.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Melkor hissed.  “We’re, you know, in public.”

“And?”

“And,” said Melkor, “I can’t do anything about it.”

“You sure about that?”

“Dude,” said Melkor, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.  “I am in no shape to drive, and it’s gonna take a cab at least fifteen minutes to get here.  You keep going like that and I’m not going to make it that long.”

Mairon snorted.  “Who asked you to?”

“What are you talking about?”

Mairon didn’t answer.  Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, turned on his heel, and headed into the crowd.

Melkor was not far behind.  He had no idea where Mairon was going or what he had meant, but he was tipsy enough to want to find out.  He pushed through the crowd, shoving and elbowing anyone who stood too firmly in his way, ignoring the indignant calls of the people he pushed past.  Finally, he reached the far side of the room.  He scanned the dingy, graffiti-covered wall before him, but apart from a dude in a banana costume passed out on the floor, he was alone.

Melkor was decidedly annoyed.  The kitchen, now closed, stood down the hall to the left.  To the right were the doors for the bathrooms.  Mairon was nowhere to be seen.  Melkor wasn’t sure he was interested in a game of hide and seek at that particular moment.  He was sure, however, that he needed to take a leak.  Muttering darkly to himself, he shouldered his way into the men’s bathroom.  

“Took you long enough,” said Mairon.  Melkor jumped and opened his mouth to respond, but he did not get the chance.  Mairon was pressed against him, pulling Melkor’s head down to kiss him.  Melkor fell back against the door, momentarily too startled to respond.  He quickly recovered his senses, wrapping his arms around Mairon and pulling him close.

Mairon’s hair was loose, a sharp contrast to the neat ponytail that usually confined it.  Melkor shifted his left hand to Mairon’s head, running his fingers through the strands from temple to crown, pushing them out of his way.  His fingers caught a knot, and Mairon drew in a sharp hiss of breath, pulling back.

“Sorry,” Melkor murmured.

Mairon looked up at him, an odd glint in his eyes.  “Do it again,” he said.

Melkor didn’t need to be told twice.  His fingers roughly traced the outline of Mairon’s skull.  He gathered fiery strands to his palm and pulled. Mairon gasped, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back.  Melkor traced the exposed line of Mairon’s neck with his tongue, grazing the curve of Mairon’s jaw with his teeth.

Mairon grabbed a handful of Melkor’s costume and pulled him close, letting his other hand slide down to palm Melkor’s erection through his pants.

“Holy shit,” said Melkor, letting his head fall back against the door with a bang.  “You have no idea how fucking turned on I am right now.”

“No idea,” said Mairon, stroking him through the thin fabric. “Not a clue.”  Melkor gasped, and Mairon grinned, moving his free hand to tug at Melkor’s zipper.  “Take this off,” he said, splaying his fingers against the muscles in Melkor’s chest.

“Dude,” said Melkor.  “It’s a flight suit.  It’s all or nothing.”

“I see that,” said Mairon, running his palm along a length of fabric that was rapidly running out of room to stretch.  

“Okay,” said Melkor.  “But I’ll basically be naked, you know.”

Mairon repeated the motion.  “And?” he said, as Melkor drew in a hissing breath.

“And,” said Melkor, resisting the urge to push closer into Mairon’s hand, “we’re kind of in public, here.”

“Not in here we’re not.”  He stilled his hand, moving so that he was barely touching Melkor.  “But I guess if you’re not interested—”

“Fuck that,” said Melkor, fumbling with his zipper and pulling so hard that it nearly tore from the thin, cheap fabric.  He shrugged his shoulders and pulled the sleeves over his hands. The flight suit now hung from his waist. Mairon looked him over and gave a low whistle of appreciation.

“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head.  “Do you know how hard it is to look at you at work when I know what this looks like?”  He gestured vaguely at Melkor’s chest.

“I know,” said Melkor, grinning.  “I’m pretty fuckin’ hot.”

“You’re a jerk,” said Mairon, shrugging out of his lab coat.

“Yes,” said Melkor, “but I’m also pretty fuckin’—”He gasped as Mairon tugged the costume farther down and pulled at the waistband of Melkor’s underwear. He knelt, knees between Melkor’s feet, and took Melkor in hand, stroking gently.  “Unfair,” he said, biting his lower lip.  “You’re too good a distraction.”

“Don’t blame me,” said Mairon.  “You’re just no good at multitasking.”

“That’s not even a little bit true,” said Melkor.  “Just this afternoon I was—”Whatever Melkor was about to say was lost in a loud, gasping moan as Mairon bent his head and took Melkor into his mouth.  “God damn,” said Melkor, gently rolling his hips forward.  “You are way too good at this.”  In answer, Mairon ran his hands up the backs of Melkor’s legs, settling his hands over Melkor’s buttocks and digging his fingers into the flesh with just enough force to elicit a stream of obscenity from Melkor’s lips.  Melkor tightened his grip on Mairon’s hair and squirmed.  “Careful,” he said, a ragged edge in his voice.  “You’re getting me way too excited here.”

Mairon gave a muffled snort and tugged forcefully at Melkor’s hips, pushing him deeper into his mouth.  Melkor could no longer hold back, his hips snapping forward as Mairon urged him further still.  Melkor tightened his left hand in Mairon’s hair and brought his right hand up to hold back his own.  Curses and praise dripped from his lips in equal measure, and he closed his eyes, his head lolling back against the door.

Mairon’s hands touched every inch of skin they could reach, trailing a gentle blaze of fire into every nerve they passed.  Melkor shivered under the touch and groaned.  He pushed forward, and Mairon let him, his eyes turning up to take in the sight of Melkor’s face, flushed and focused.  Mairon watched him for a moment and then pulled away, sitting back on his heels.  

Melkor’s eyes fluttered lazily open, and he gave a half-grin. “Come here,” he said, pulling Mairon roughly to his feet.  He took Mairon’s face in his hands and ran a thumb over the saliva that glistened on Mairon’s lips.  Melkor leaned forward and kissed him, too eager for gentleness.  Mairon didn’t seem to mind.  He snaked his arm around the back of Melkor’s neck and pulled him closer, his teeth biting gently at Melkor’s lower lip as he kissed him back. He pressed his body against Melkor’s, and Melkor could feel himself growing painfully hard as Mairon lazily stroked him.  

Mairon pulled away, kissing Melkor gently on the lips before retreating just out of immediate reach.  “So,” said Mairon, resting both hands on the exposed skin of Melkor’s chest.  “Are you going to fuck me or what?”

Melkor stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded, struck as much by the profanity as the brashness of the request.  Then, he laughed, giddy peals echoing around the tile walls. “Lose the pants,” he said, “and I’ll do whatever you want me to.”  Mairon unclasped his belt and pulled it through the loops, folding it neatly into a circle before discarding it on top of his lab coat.  “God,” Melkor complained.  “You’re so slow.”  He shoved one hand into Mairon’s waistband and pulled him closer.  He made quick work of the clasps and zipper, and the pants fell to the floor.

“You’re impatient,” said Mairon, grinning at him.

“You’re goddamn right I am,” said Melkor, pulling down Mairon’s boxers. “But to be fair,” he said running a hand down the exposed skin of Mairon’s backside, “you did just have my dick in your mouth, so…”

“I take it you liked that?” said Mairon.

Melkor turned Mairon to face the door and leaned over him, left hand stroking Mairon’s cock.  “What do you think?” he breathed, letting his teeth graze Mairon’s earlobe.  Melkor let his right hand wander the freckled expanse of Mairon’s skin.  He cupped the curve of Mairon’s ass, giving it a gentle squeeze before breaching him.

Mairon hissed, his hands splayed on the grimy wood of the door.  “Now who’s slow?” he said, turning his head too look over his shoulder at Melkor.

Melkor snorted.  “Now who’s impatient?” he teased, but he added a second finger.  Mairon gasped, his fingernails digging into the door.

“To be fair,” he said, his voice shaking ever-so-slightly, “you do have your fingers in my ass, so…”

Melkor laughed.  “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Mairon immediately.  “Now hurry up.”

“Like I said,” said Melkor, grinning.  “Impatient.”  Still, he added another finger, splaying the digits and gently working Mairon open. Mairon’s head fell forward, his forehead pressing into the door.  He gasped and pressed himself into Melkor’s touch.  He shivered, goosebumps rising across the flesh of his back, and let out a soft moan.  

Melkor’s patience, limited in the best of circumstances, dissipated in the face of Mairon’s arousal.  One hand grasped his own erection, and the other pulled Mairon’s hips into line. “You sure you’re ready?” he said, his breath hot in Mairon’s ear.  In answer, Mairon pushed himself back, hissing as he felt Melkor begin to slide into him.

Melkor’s fingers dug into the flesh of Mairon’s hip, and he began to move, pushing farther in with each roll of his hips.  “Oh, God, yes,” Mairon moaned, splaying his fingers across the door and biting his lip.  Melkor rested one hand on the door for leverage; with the other, he stroked Mairon’s length, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.  “Harder,” Mairon whined, a flush creeping across the light, freckled skin of his back.

Melkor obliged, and Mairon moaned, his knuckles going white as he dug his fingernails into the door.  Melkor was beginning to fray, his breath coming in shaky pants as he quickened his pace. “Yes,” Mairon whispered, the word falling as a relentless litany from his lips as his voice grew ragged and broken. Melkor’s hand on his cock was unyielding, stoking his pleasure until at last Mairon came, crying out and sinking his teeth into Melkor’s arm to muffle the sound.  Melkor was painfully aroused, as much by the sound of Mairon’s satisfaction as by the feeling of Mairon’s teeth against his skin.  He thrust hard and quick into Mairon, and at last he reached his climax, moaning loudly and burying his face in Mairon’s neck.

Mairon laid his slick, flushed cheek against Melkor’s arm and sighed contentedly.  Melkor breathed in the scent of sweat and sex on his skin and began to laugh.

Mairon craned his neck, trying in vain to see Melkor’s face. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You,” said Melkor, grinning.  “This.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve known you for six years—arguably pretty well—and I still would’ve never, not in a million years, guessed that you’d ask me to fuck you in the bathroom of some shitty bar.”

He reached over and pulled the cover off the paper towel dispenser, tearing out a sizeable chunk and handing it to Mairon.

“Believe it or not,” said Mairon, cleaning himself up, “there’s plenty you don’t know about me.”

“Is that right?” said Melkor, tearing off a few sheets of paper and slamming the cover shut.

“Don’t worry,” said Mairon.  “Something tells me you’re going to have plenty of chances to learn.”  He tossed the paper towels into the garbage and pulled up his pants, threading his belt through the loops and clasping it once more.  He glanced at his watch.  “We better go if you want to enter the contest.”

He reached for the door handle, but Melkor stopped him.  He pushed Mairon back against the door and leaned down to kiss him, his hands far gentler in Mairon’s hair than they had been just a few moments before.  He could feel Mairon’s grin against his lips, and he kissed him harder, stifling his own grin.  

He pulled away at last, running his thumb over Mairon’s swollen lips and smiling.  “Thanks,” he said softly.

Melkor cocked his head to the side, looking up at Melkor curiously. “For what?”

“Everything,” said Melkor.    

Mairon smiled back at him.  From the bar came the muffled sound of someone speaking over the microphone, calling the patrons to some semblance of order.  “Come on,” he said, pressing a final kiss to Melkor’s lips.  “Let’s see if we can’t win you a costume contest.”

“Fuck yes,” said Melkor and followed him out into the crowd.  


	2. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow You Down Christmas 2016 shitshow

_2:00pm_

Mairon’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text message that had popped up on the screen.  One word, sent from Melkor: _help._

Mairon rolled his eyes, set his phone aside, and picked up the report he had been reading.  A moment later, his phone buzzed again.  Another message from Melkor appeared on the screen: _Help._

Mairon clucked his tongue and turned his phone over, screen facing the desk. He swiveled his chair gently and skimmed the page in his hand, looking for where he had left off.

The phone buzzed again.  Against his better judgement, Mairon picked it up and looked at the message that had just arrived: _Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp._

“For God’s sake,” he muttered.

Before he could respond, a barrage of identical messages began to fill the screen.

_HELP_

_HELP_

_HELP_

_HELP_

_HELP_

_HELP_

“Jesus Christ,” he swore.  He pushed himself back from his desk and stalked across the hall to Melkor’s office, his phone still buzzing incessantly in his hand.  “For the love of God,” he snapped, pushing into Melkor’s office. “What do you want?”

“Oh, thank God,” said Melkor, laying his hand dramatically over his heart.  “I thought you’d never come.”

“What do you want?” asked Mairon again, unmoved.

“I need an electrical engineer.”

“I’m not an electrical engineer.”

“That’s not what your master’s degree says.”

“Oh my God,” said Mairon, throwing his head back and sighing.  “What do you want?”

“Advice,” said Melkor.  “From my dear friend, and go-to problem solver.”

“Melkor, I swear to God—”

“Alright, alright,” said Melkor.  “Relax.  I need you to look at something.”  He slid a piece of paper across his desk.

Mairon picked it up, his brows knitting together as he looked at the scribbled notes.  “What am I looking at?”

“Plans,” said Melkor.

“Plans for what?”

“The greatest light display you’ve ever seen,” said Melkor.  

“I don’t know what I expected,” said Mairon, shaking his head.

“Aw, come on,” said Melkor.  “I’ve tried, like, four different configurations, and I’ve blown a different fuse every time.  I’m desperate.”

“You need is an electrician, not an electrical engineer.”

“But what I have,” said Melkor, “is an electrical engineer.  So…”Mairon scowled, and Melkor adopted an ingratiating grin.  “Please?”

“You know I’m incredibly busy, right?”

“Pretty please?”

“I have like, eight projects I need to finish before New Year’s.”

“Aw, come on, Scrooge.  It’s Christmas.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a huge drain on my productivity.  You know that, right?”

“Is that a yes?”

Mairon sighed.  “I want you to know this is resignation, not willingness.  Do you hear me?”

“Nope,” said Melkor, scooping up his plans and grinning widely.  “I can’t hear you over the sound of Christmas cheer. Come on,” he said, tossing Mairon his coat and heading for the door.  “I’m parked out front.”  
  


_5:15pm_   
  


“Holy shit,” said Thuringwethil, looking around in awe.  “I should’ve brought my sunglasses.”

“Pretty sweet, huh?” said Melkor, beaming with pride as he looked around at his apartment, which looked vaguely as though Willy Wonka had been allowed to design a storefront holiday display.  There were lights around every window and door frame in sight, blinking their blues and greens and reds in a clash of meandering patterns.  There were soft, white icicle lights strung in zig-zags across the ceiling.  Red and silver tinsel lined every windowsill and wound intricately around the banister of the stairs.  There were two trees in the living room, each at least six feet tall and dripping with so many lights and ornaments that the boughs drooped dangerously low to the ground. There were small trees on every side table in sight, each decorated in a different color.  Four stockings hung over the fireplace, which bled soft light and warmth into the room.

“That’s one word for it,” said Thuringwethil, eyeing the miniature train that wound around the perimeter of the room, slaloming between trees and furniture before disappearing through the doorway and into the kitchen.

“I love it,” said Gothmog, pushing Thuringwethil inside and closing the door behind them.  

“You’re going to blow a fuse,” said Thuringwethil, looking suspiciously at the lights.

“I’ve got it covered,” said Melkor.  He craned his head toward the kitchen.  “Mairon?” he called.

“Still working,” came the reply, from somewhere in the depths of the cavernous apartment.

“Jesus,” said Gothmog.  “Still? You guys left like, three hours ago.”

“It’s a delicate procedure,” said Melkor, grinning.

“And judging by the amount of lights already up,” said Thuringwethil, “possibly dangerous as well.  Where should I put this stuff?”  She held up the bags in her hands.

“What is it?”

“Food,” she said, heading toward the kitchen.  “I brought mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans.  Gothmog has the drinks.”  She set the bags down carefully on the counter, the crockery clinking gently as it settled.  “I need to heat it up, though.  Can I use the oven?”

“Go for it.”

“Did you heat up the ham, or are you going to wait?”

“What?”

“The ham,” she said.  “Does it need to go in too?’

Um,” said Melkor.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then where is it?”

“I have to pick it up,” said Melkor.  “I was just on my way out, actually.”

“You’re not going to find one on this late notice.”

“Bet me,” said Melkor, flashing a grin as he headed for the door.

“And that’s why we never leave Melkor in charge of anything,” she said, sighing as she turned the oven on to preheat.  “It’s Christmas dinner, for crying out loud.  How can you forget the ham?”

“On the bright side,” said Gothmog, “we have plenty of wine.”

“Thank God,” said Thuringwethil.  “Now if we can just find the corkscrew…”  
  


_5:36pm_   
  


“Honey!” called Melkor, kicking open the front door.  “I’m home!”

“Wow,” said Gothmog.  “That was fast.”  He turned in his spot on the couch and craned to look at Melkor.  “What’d you get us?”

“Ham,” said Melkor.  “As promised.”  He ambled into the kitchen and set an enormous platter on the counter.

“Oh my God,” said Thuringwethil, turning away from the stove.  “Where’d you get that?”

“Downstairs.”

“Downst—from your building’s Christmas party?”

“Maybe.”

“You stole the ham from your building’s community Christmas party?”

“’Stole’ is such a strong word.”

“How about ‘grinched’?” suggested Gothmog, coming over to inspect the platter.

“To be fair,” said Melkor, “the Grinch stole the roast beast.”

“The type of meat isn’t really the issue here,” said Thuringwethil.

“You wanted a ham,” said Melkor.  “I got you a ham.”

“You stole one, you mean.”

“Grinched,” said Gothmog.

“Don’t encourage him,” said Thuringwehtil.

“Alright,” said Mairon, coming into the kitchen at last.  “We may have an illegal number of extension cords in here, but I think it’ll hold for the night.”

“So everything’s hooked up?” asked Melkor.

“It’s good to go,” said Mairon, walking to the counter and surveying the food with interest.  “Is that ham? Fantastic.”

“It’s stolen,” said Thuringwethil, frowning at Melkor.

“I don’t even care,” said Mairon.  “I’m starving.”

“Then let’s eat,” said Melkor, maneuvering a stack of plates out of the cupboard.

“Okay,” said Thuringwethil, “but—”

“Thuringwethil, it’s Christmas.”

“So?”

“So take this,” said Melkor, handing her a glass of wine, “and this,” he continued, placing a Santa hat gently on her head, “and for once in your life, relax.”  
  


_8:20pm_   
  


“Is it me,” said Gothmog, “or is this eggnog getting weaker?”

“No,” said Thuringwethil, “you’re just getting drunker.”

“Yeah,” said Gothmog.  “You’re probably right.”

“Drink,” said Melkor, waving his glass at the TV and sloshing eggnog onto the carpet, “as we watch our hero, one-time child star Macaulay Culkin, attempt to smash Joe Pesci’s skull with a paint can.”

“I swear we didn’t drink nearly this much last year,” said Gothmog, pouring himself a fresh glass.

“We drink exactly the same amount every year,” said Melkor.  “One drink every time Kevin sets off a trap that could’ve killed someone.”

“At least we’re only watching _Home Alone_ ,” said Thuringwethil.  “Remember the year we watched the sequel, too?”

“That was my first year, if I remember correctly,” said Mairon.

“I think you’re right,” said Gothmog.  “Somehow, you were the only one who didn’t get completely shitfaced.”

“How did you manage that?” asked Melkor.

“I took strategically smaller sips,” said Mairon.

“Cheater,” said Melkor, dumping eggnog into Mairon’s glass.  “You better make up for it tonight.”

“Working on it,” said Mairon.  He nodded at the screen.  “Drink.”  
  


_12:38am_   
  


“Look at ‘em,” said Melkor, feigning disgust as he nodded toward the couch, where Gothmog and Thuringwethil had fallen asleep.  “Couple of lightweights, I tell you.”

“Give them a break,” said Mairon mildly, sprawled sideways in a chair. “It’s been a long month.”

“Yes,” Melkor agreed, sighing.  “The fact that it’s over is just about the best gift I could’ve asked for.”

“Oh, man,” said Mairon, heaving himself out of his chair and looking around. “I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“Shoot,” said Mairon, not listening.  “Where did I put it?”

“Put what?”

“My coat.”

“Kitchen,” said Melkor, standing up and trailing Mairon out of the room.

“Good call,” said Mairon, snatching his jacket from the kitchen table and rummaging in the pocket.

“What are you looking for?” asked Melkor, leaning against the island.

“This,” said Mairon triumphantly, pulling a slightly crumpled envelope from his pocket and turning around.

“What is it?”

“A gift,” said Mairon, smoothing it gently.  He walked over to the island and held the envelope out in front of him. “Merry Christmas, Melkor,” he said.

“No fair,” said Melkor.  “This is a no-present party.”

“I know,” said Mairon.  “But I couldn’t resist.”

Melkor broke the envelope’s seal and fished out a piece of paper, folded in thirds.  Setting aside the envelope, he pulled open the folded paper and scanned it.  His eyes widened as he read, and he looked up at Mairon, mouth agape.  “Is this what I think it is?”

“Patent papers on the Silmaril programs,” said Mairon.  “It’s still preliminary, but—“

“It’s perfect,” said Melkor firmly, crossing the distance between them.  He lifted Mairon’s chin and kissed him gently on the lips.  “Absolutely perfect,” he murmured, kissing him again.  “Which makes it, like, doubly terrible that I didn’t get anything for you.”

“Keep that up,” said Mairon, “and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal,” said Melkor, and kissed him again.  


	3. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very Angband New Year's party. (2017)

 “I still think,” said Melkor, “that we should’ve gone to see the ball drop in person.”

             “Yeah, well this is the next best thing,” said Gothmog.  “Your screen’s so fuckin’ big it’s practically life-size anyway.”

             “That felt vaguely like an insult,” said Melkor, “and I just want you to know that it was a weak attempt.”

             “Hey,” said Gothmog, shrugging.  “I’m not going to criticize you for buying a ten million inch flat screen—especially not when you let me watch games on it like, once a week.”

             “I am a good and generous friend,” said Melkor. “But back to the subject at hand—”

             “Oh, quit whining,” said Thuringwethil.  “This is a much better setup.  It’s quiet, it’s warm, and I don’t have to deal with every drunk asshole on the planet running into me.”

             “This is true,” said Mairon.  

             “God,” Melkor complained, sighing theatrically. “When did you three get so boring?”

             “We’re practical,” said Mairon.  “Not boring.”

             “Same thing,” said Melkor.

             “Aw, come on,” said Gothmog.  “Thil’s right.  This is way better.  There’s food, there’s booze, there’s games…what more could you want?”

             “Atmosphere,” said Melkor stubbornly.

             Gothmog blew a noisemaker and popped a cracker.   “Better?” he asked, as glitter spiraled dizzily toward the floor.

             “No,” said Melkor.

             “How about now?” asked Thuringwethil, holding up a glass.

             Melkor took the punch.  “A little,” he said.  He took a sip, and a grin cracked his face.  “Actually, yes.  Damn, this is good punch.”

             “Thanks,” said Mairon.  “Now are we playing poker or not?”

             “As long as it’s strip,” said Melkor.

             “Barf,” said Thuringwethil.

             “Come on,” said Melkor.  “We have a good looking group here.  It’d be fun.”

             “Melkor, I have endured more unwanted glimpses of your ass cheeks than I can count on two hands.  Please, for the love of God, spare me.”

             “Relax, Thil.  I wouldn’t be the one stripping anyway.  You only strip when you lose.”

             “That’s not even a little bit reassuring.”

             “What, you think I’m going to lose?”

             “I know you’re going to lose,” she said.  “To me, in fact.”

             “Oh, yeah?”

             “Uh-huh.”

             “Hope you brought your cash, Thil.”

             “Why?  I’m not gonna need it.”

             “We’ll see about that,” said Melkor, beginning to shuffle the cards.  “Come on, you three.  Grab a drink and get ready to lose.”

*****

             “For fuck’s sake,” said Gothmog, tossing his cards onto the table.  “Again?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

             “You fold?” said Thuringwethil.

             “Do I really have a choice?” he said, scowling. “Don’t answer,” he added.  “I’m out.”

             “The asshole to my left folds,” said Thuringwethil. “How about the one to my right?”

             “Call,” said Melkor, tossing a fifty onto the pile.

             Thuringwethil raised an eyebrow.  “Fine,” she said coolly.

             “It is fine,” said Melkor.

             “We’ll see,” she said.  “Mai?  How about you?”

             “Give me a card,” he said, sliding one across the table to her.  She tossed a new card in his direction.  He picked it up off the table, and the corner of his mouth twitched.  “I’m all in,” he said, shoving money into the center of the table.

             “Well, fuck,” said Melkor, tossing his cards onto the table.  “I’m out.”

             “Aw, come on,” said Mairon, his lips twitching as he tried to keep a straight face.

             “I lost enough money already,” said Melkor.  “I don’t need to give up my dignity, too.”

             “Thuringwethil?” asked Mairon, raising an eyebrow at her.

             “Goddamn it,” she said, sighing.  She laid her cards on the table.  “Let’s see what you got, Rain Man.”

             Mairon carefully spread his cards face-up on the table.

             “You’re shitting me,” said Melkor.

             “Read ‘em and weep,” said Mairon, grinning.

             “A six,” said Melkor, “a pair of fives, a queen, and a two.”  He shook his head in disbelief.  “A motherfucking two.”

             “Impressive, huh?” said Mairon, reaching out and scooping the pile of money in the center of the table toward himself.

             “You’ve got balls,” said Melkor.  “I’ll give you that.”

             “All these years,” said Thuringwethil, “and you’d think we’d know by now what a good fuckin’ liar this guy is.”

             “It’s called bluffing,” said Mairon.  “Not lying.  And it’s all about confidence.”

             “I’ll give you that,” said Melkor.  “You’re one confident son of a bitch alright.”

             “Jesus,” said Gothmog, inspecting his wallet. “You cleaned me out.”

             “Me too,” said Melkor, tossing his wallet onto the table.

             “Not me,” said Thuringwethil.  “But then again, I’m not as dumb as you two are.”

             “Who you calling dumb?” Melkor demanded.

             “Alright,” she said.  “You’re not dumb.  But you have very little foresight and you tend to make some really bad decisions.”

             “Name one,” Melkor demanded.  

             “That,” said Thuringwethil, pointing at the TV.

             “That’s not dumb,” said Melkor.  “That’s just awesome.”

             “It’s tacky.”        

             “Is not.”

             “Oh, please,” said Thuringwethil, rolling her eyes. “You have no taste.”

             “You gonna let her insult you like that, Mai?”

             “Um,” said Mairon, looking around the table, slightly taken-aback.

             At last, Melkor’s brain caught up with his mouth, and he looked chagrined.  “Oops,” he said.

             “Wait,” said Gothmog.  “What?”

             “Come on, Gothmog,” said Thuringwethil.  “Like you didn’t know.”

             “Know what?”

             “Oh, for—these two have been fucking for like, a month.”

             “Ew,” said Gothmog.

             “How would you know?” demanded Melkor.

             “You’re not exactly quiet,” said Thuringwethil.

             “We don’t exactly try,” Mairon retorted.

             “Ew,” said Gothmog again.

             “Well on the plus side,” said Melkor, “I’m kind of glad it’s out in the open.  Not gonna lie—the whole sneaking around thing was getting a little old.”

             “I don’t know,’ said Mairon.  “I thought it was kind of hot.”

             “Yeah you did,” said Melkor, grinning.

             “Oh God,” said Gothmog.  “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

             “Don’t puke yet,” said Thuringwethil.  “It’s just about time for shots.”

             “Already?” said Mairon, looking around at the TV.

             “Finally,” said Melkor.  “Get the glasses, Thil.”

             “Way ahead of you,” she said, lining them up on the table.  “Hand me the booze.”

             “What kind?”

             “Whichever,” said Gothmog.  “Hurry up.  We’re going to miss it.”

             “Are not,” said Thuringwethil, pouring out four shots with a steady, practiced hand.  “Here,” she said, handing out glasses.  “Just in time.”

             On the screen, the clock ticked through the final three seconds of the night.  Glitter and confetti exploded across the screen, and the crowd began to cheer. “Happy New Year, punks!” said Gothmog gleefully, draining his glass.

             “Happy New Year!” said Thuringwethil, taking her shot. “That’s good stuff,” she said, eyeing the bottle appreciatively.

             “It better be,” said Melkor, setting his now-empty glass on the table.  “It’s a hundred bucks a bottle.”

             “Admit it,” said Thuringwethil, refilling both their glasses.  “This is ten thousand times better than being in Times Square.”

             “Eh,” said Melkor.

             “Oh, come on,” said Thuringwethil.  “It’s warm, it’s dry, we have expensive liquor, and we’re not getting jostled.  What more could you want?”

             “Atmosphere,” said Melkor stubbornly.  “The real New Year’s Eve experience.”

             “Who needs atmosphere?” said Mairon.  “You have us.”

             “True,” said Melkor, turning and kissing him.

             “Oh, barf,” said Gothmog.  

             “You’re jealous,” said Melkor.

             “No offence,” said Gothmog, “but Mai’s not really my type.”

             “All the better for me,” said Melkor, kissing him again.

             “Please tell me this isn’t going to be a regular thing,” said Gothmog, making a face of disgust.

             “Sorry, Gothmog,” said Mairon, winding his arm around Melkor’s waist and grinning.

             Melkor kissed the top of Mairon’s head and grinned. “I have a feeling,” he said, looking around the room contentedly, “it’s going to be a very good year.”


	4. Night Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor knows the cure for insomnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hint: it's nsfw

             Melkor woke to an empty bed.  He raised his head, bleary-eyed, and looked at the clock. It was three twenty-one in the morning. There was a quiet, steady clicking coming from somewhere close, and Melkor sighed.  He pushed himself up out of bed and trudged out into the hall. The clicking got louder as he shuffled down the hall.  He followed the sound to the living room, where he found Mairon, typing furiously at his laptop.

             “What are you doing?” he asked, yawning.

             “Did I wake you?” said Mairon, looking over his shoulder at Melkor.  “I’m sorry. I thought I was being quiet.”

             “Couldn’t you sleep?”

             Mairon shook his head.  “Every time I started to fall asleep, I thought of, like, a hundred things I need to do.”

             “You need to relax.”

             “I know,” said Mairon.  “I just can’t.”

             “Anything I can do to help?”

             “No,” said Mairon.  “It’s okay.  I’m sorry I woke you.”

             “Are you sure?”  Melkor laid a hand on Mairon’s thigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on the bare skin.  

             Mairon’s hands stilled on the keyboard, and he looked sideways at Melkor.  “Seems like you might have some ideas,” he said.

             “Just the one,” said Melkor, sliding his hand further up the soft skin of Mairon’s leg.  “What do you think?”

             “It can’t hurt to try,” said Mairon, mock-serious.

             “My thoughts exactly,” said Melkor.  He closed Mairon’s laptop and set it on the coffee table.  Then, he shifted forward, dropping to his knees between Mairon’s legs.  “I don’t think these are necessary,” he said, pulling at the waist of Mairon’s shorts.  He lowered his head and kissed the bare skin of Mairon’s inner thigh, biting gently where his lips had touched.  

             Mairon gasped, a sharp inhalation drawn through his teeth.  Melkor’s lips traced a path up Mairon’s tender skin, and Mairon squirmed beneath him. “You’re driving me crazy,” Mairon murmured, biting his lip and digging his fingers into the couch cushions.

             “You love it,” said Melkor.  He wrapped his hand around the base of Mairon’s erection and stroked, lazily.

             Mairon’s head tipped back, his eyes closed.  “So do you,” he said.

            Melkor grinned and took Mairon’s cock in his mouth.  Mairon’s back arched, and he slid his fingers through Melkor’s hair. “Yes,” he whispered, his hand coming to rest at the back of Melkor’s head, pushing him down.  Melkor let Mairon guide him, his hands settling on Mairon’s waist.  “God, yes,” said Mairon, his fingers tangling in Melkor’s hair.  Melkor’s fingers dug into the skin of Mairon’s hips, quickening his pace.  Mairon’s back arched, sending his hips snapping forward and burying his cock deeper in Melkor’s throat.  

            Mairon let go of Melkor’s hair and shifted both hands to Melkor’s arms, pulling him up.  He leaned forward and kissed Melkor hard, lips and teeth crashing desperately together. “Easy,” said Melkor, a smirk on his lips and in his voice.  In answer, Mairon kissed him again, pulling him closer.  

            “You’re a tease,” said Mairon, his fingernails tracing lightly down the bare skin of Melkor’s chest.

            “I know,” said Melkor.  “I can’t help it.  I love to see you like this.”

            “Like what?”

            “Unguarded,” said Melkor.  “Relaxed.”

            Mairon kissed him again, gently this time.  One hand tugged at the waist of Melkor’s shorts, pulling them down. He took Melkor in hand, pulling him closer as Melkor gasped.  Melkor braced one hand on the back of the couch, straddling Mairon’s legs and moving his hips in time with Mairon’s hand.  “God, that feels good.”

            Mairon caught the lobe of Melkor’s ear between his teeth, pulling gently.  “Touch me,” he whispered.

            Melkor was happy to oblige.  Mairon curled his hand around the back of Melkor’s neck, pulling him closer. Melkor kissed him, and Mairon pulled him still closer, his tongue sliding eagerly against Melkor’s.  “Fuck,” said Melkor, pulling back.  “Fuck.  Just like that.”  

            “I’m so close,” Mairon whispered, his voice ragged and broken.  

            Melkor ducked his head, licking a stripe up the burning flesh of Mairon’s neck, tasting the salt on his skin.  “Come for me,” he said, his voice a low, gutted growl.

            And Mairon did, gasping at the release, his head falling back against the couch. Melkor was not far behind, spilling himself onto Mairon with a grunt.  He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.  His breath was ragged, his heart was beating hard in his chest, and he felt completely, utterly content.

            “Thanks,” said Mairon softly, calling him back to the present.  “I needed that.”

            “Literally anytime,” said Melkor.  

            Mairon laughed.  He looked down at his shirt and grimaced.  “Guess that’s it for this,” he said, carefully extricating himself from the sodden fabric.  

            “Shirts are overrated anyway,” said Melkor.  

            “Exhibit A,” said Mairon, running a hand appreciatively against the muscle of Melkor’s chest.  Then he yawned, dropping his shirt on the floor and stretching his arms over his head.

            “Tired?” said Melkor.

            “Exhausted,” said Mairon.

            “Come on,” said Melkor, pushing himself up.  He held out a hand.  “Let’s go to bed.”


	5. We're Going To Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Melkor met Gothmog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And how Gothmog decided to work for him. (FYD-verse)

              _July_

“Nice shirt,” said the man at the front of the line, nodding at the bouncer. 

              “You like the Beastie Boys?” said the bouncer.

              “I used to blast _Fight For Your Right_ on repeat every time my dad tried to ground me,” he said, rolling his eyes.  “Which was a lot.  He was always such an uptight prick.”

              “Sounds like it,” said the bouncer.  “I’m Gothmog, by the way.”

              “Melkor,” said the other man, and held out his hand.

              Gothmog shook it.  “You look familiar,” said Gothmog.

              “I’m here a couple times a week,” said Melkor.  “I like this place.”

              “This place is a shithole,” said Gothmog.

              “I know,” said Melkor, grinning.  “But the drinks are cheap, and the bands are alright, in a kind of terrible way.”

              “Fair enough,” said Gothmog.  A man and woman left the bar through the door behind him, and he stepped to the side.  “You’re up,” he said.

              “Eh,” said Melkor, shrugging.  “I’m not in a hurry.”  He stepped back and let the people behind him cross.

              “You sure?” asked Gothmog.

              “It’s nice out,” said Melkor.  “And you have good taste in music.  I can spare a couple minutes.”

 

_September_

 

              “Gothmog!” Melkor called, pushing his way to the front of the crowd.  “Hey, Gothmog!”

              “There’s a line, asshole,” said a man toward the front, glaring at Melkor.

              “There’s a line, asshole,” Melkor repeated in a juvenile, sing-song voice.  “Bite me.”

              “What’s up, buddy?” said Gothmog, holding out a hand. 

              Melkor bumped his fist against Gothmog’s, grinning.  “Traffic’s a fucking nightmare,” he said.

              “It’s Friday night,” said Gothmog, shrugging.

              “Hey,” said the man near the front of the line.  “There’s a line.  You can’t let your friends skip.”

              “Actually,” said Gothmog.  “I can.  Perks of the job.”  Four people left the bar, and Gothmog let four more people in.

              “Asshole,” he said, crossing his arms and glaring at Gothmog.

              “Right back at ya,” said Gothmog.

              “Here,” said Melkor, holding a bag out to him.

              “What’s this?”

              “Late dinner,” said Melkor.  “I was swamped at work.  I didn’t get to eat.  I figured you probably didn’t either.”

              “Thanks, man,” said Gothmog.  “I’m starving.”

              “Good,” said Melkor.  “I got seventeen tacos.”

              “Why seventeen?”

              Melkor shrugged.  “The chick at the register asked how many I wanted.  I told her to surprise me.”

              Gothmog laughed.  “You’re a weird dude, you know that?”

              “So I’ve been told.”

              A group of men left the bar by the front door, laughing loudly and blowing cigarette smoke back at the waiting crowd.  Gothmog stepped aside to let more people in, but he held out his hand when the heckler approached.  “Uh-uh, man,” he said.  “Not you.”

              “I’m next in line,” said the man.

              “And you can keep being next in line all night,” said Gothmog.  “You’re not going in.”

              “Fuck this,” he said.  “I don’t want in your shitty bar anyway.”

              “Good,” said Gothmog. 

              “Fuck you.  Your manager’s going to hear about this.”

              Gothmog snorted.  “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear from you.”

              The man stalked away, turning back halfway down the blog to raise both middle fingers at Gothmog, who returned the gesture with a grin.

              “Petty vengeance,” said Melkor.  “I like it.”

              “Why am I not surprised?” said Gothmog, rolling his eyes.

 

_November_

 

              Gothmog stood just inside the bar, peering every so often out the propped-open door.  There was no line tonight; rain had been pouring down steadily for the past three hours, and the bar was half-empty.  Gothmog tapped his foot to the music blasting over the speakers, the guitar feedback making his ears ring.  He glanced up again and caught sight of a lone figure walking toward the bar.  “You’re brave,” he said as the figure approached.  “Oh, shit.  Melkor?”

              Melkor dragged himself into the bar.  He was soaked to the skin, his long black ponytail dripping incessantly onto the floor.  His boots squelched loudly as he shifted from foot to foot.  “Fuck, it’s cold.”

              “Hang on,” said Gothmog, jogging over to the bar.  He retrieved a stack of mostly-clean bar towels and handed them to Melkor.  “Better than nothing,” he said, shrugging.

              “Thanks,” said Melkor.

              “What happened to you?”

              “My fucking bike broke down,” said Melkor.  “Piece of shit.”

              “You have a bike?

              “It’s old,” said Melkor.  “I got it super cheap because it’s a piece of shit.”

              “So I heard.”

Melkor scowled at him half-heartedly.  “I’ve been trying to fix it up, but I don’t know jack about fixing a bike.”

              “I can take a look, if you want.”

              “Yeah?” said Melkor.  “You know something about bikes?”

              “A little,” said Gothmog.  “I did about two years as a mechanic in the army.”

              “No shit,” said Melkor.  “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a military type.”

              “I’m not,” said Gothmog.  “Not really.  Hence the dishonorable discharge.”

              “What’d you do?”

              “Got really fucking high at a training exercise in the desert.  I wandered away for like, two days and had to go to the hospital because I was so dehydrated.”

              “Dude, that’s awesome.”

              “My CO didn’t think so,” said Gothmog.  “He marked me as AWOL and got me kicked out.  He always was an asshole.”

              “Ouch.  That sounds a little extreme.”

              “I mean, it may have also had something to do with the Jeep I stole.”

              Melkor laughed.  “I’m surprised you only got thrown out.”

              “Believe me,” said Gothmog.  “That was bad enough.”

              “Yeah,” said Melkor.  “I bet.  Their loss, though.”

              “Not sure they’d agree, but whatever.  Anyway, I’ll look at it tomorrow if you want.”

              “Sure.”

              “You want me to call you a cab?”

              “Fuck, no.  I’m broke.  I’ll wait ‘til it clears up and walk.”

              “Good luck with that.  It’s supposed to pour all night.”

              “Fuck,” said Melkor.

              “You have anywhere to be tonight?”  Melkor shook his head.  “I can give you a ride if you want.  After my shift’s over.”

              “You’re a lifesaver, Gothmog.”

              “I know,” he said.  “And more importantly, you’re totally going to owe me one.”

 

_December_

 

              “There’s an opening for a bouncer,” said Gothmog.  “Our other guy quit.”

              “Cool,” said Melkor, taking a swig of the beer in his hand.

              “You want an application?  You’d be good at it, and you’re here all the time anyway.”

              “Pass,” said Melkor.

              “It’s not a bad gig,” said Gothmog.  “The hours kind of suck, but the pay’s not half bad.”

              “I’m good,” said Melkor.

              “Dude,” said Gothmog, “you’re literally always complaining about how broke you are.”

              “Not for long,” said Melkor.  “I’m starting a business.”

              “Oh yeah?  What kind of business?”

              “One that sells aircraft to people with way too much money to spend.”

              Gothmog laughed, but Melkor merely blinked at him.  “Oh, shit.  You’re serious.”  Melkor nodded.  “How’re you going to do that?  I assume you need to know something about planes or whatever.”

              Melkor laughed.  “It just so happens I do know a little something about planes or whatever.  I’m a mechanical engineer.”

              “For real?”  Melkor nodded.  “Wow.  I never would’ve guessed.”

“I feel vaguely insulted.”

              “No,” said Gothmog.  “It’s just, I don’t know.  You don’t seem like the type.”

              “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” said Melkor.

              “Wow,” said Gothmog.  “So you’re really doing this?”

              “Filing the paperwork tomorrow.”

              “That’s awesome, man.  Good luck.”

              “Thanks.”  Melkor gathered up the stack of soaked towels he’d amassed at his feet.  “Hey, you want to play pool?  Ten bucks says I can kick your ass.”

              “I thought you were broke.”

              “I have priorities.”

              Gothmog laughed.  “Hope you’re ready to lose, asshole.”

 

_January_

 

              Gothmog trudged out of his room and into the bathroom.  It was five o’clock in the evening; he was due at the bar in two hours, enough time to eat, take a shower, and veg in front of the TV until he absolutely had to go.  He turned on the tap and splashed cool water onto his face, willing himself to wake up.  From the kitchen, there was a rattle and a thud.  Gothmog froze, listening.  Someone was walking through his kitchen; he could hear the heavy fall of boots on the linoleum.  He turned off the water and crept out of the bathroom, tiptoeing down the hall.  He grabbed a long golf umbrella he had discarded on the floor the night before; it was the only potential weapon within reach.  Then, steeling himself, he turned the corner and barreled into the kitchen.

              “Jesus Christ,” he said, lowering the umbrella and leveling a glare at the intruder.  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

              “An umbrella?” said Melkor, looking up from his seat at the kitchen table.  “Really?  What were you going to do, dumbass?  Stab me?”

              “Beat the shit out of you, probably,” said Gothmog.  “I don’t know.  I didn’t have a lot of time to plan.”

              “Got any mustard?”

              “No,” said Gothmog.  “Did you leave any for me?”

              “Made you one,” said Melkor, pushing a plate with a sandwich on it across the table.  “I figured you’d be up soon.”

              “Thanks,” said Gothmog, sitting down beside him.  “I could’ve sworn I locked that door.”

              “You did,” said Melkor.  “But I’ve been picking locks since I was eleven.”

              “Of course you have.”

              “I like how you don’t even ask why I’m here.”

              “I’ve given up asking you those kind of questions,” said Gothmog.  “There’s never a good answer.”

              “You’re a quick learner,” said Melkor. 

              “First time I ever heard that.”  Melkor laughed, and Gothmog rubbed at his eyes.  “God, I’m tired,” he said. 

              “Yeah,” said Melkor.  “Working nights blows.”

              “Someday I’m going to work up the energy to find a new job.”

              “Funny you should say that,” said Melkor.  “I know someone who’s hiring.”

              “Yeah?  Who’s that?”

              “Me.”

              Gothmog laughed.  “Dude, it’s cool that you can do that fancy engineering shit and all, but I barely passed algebra.  I’m definitely not qualified.”

              “I don’t need an engineer,” said Melkor.  “I need security.”

              “Security?  Really?”

              “I’m real fuckin’ close to getting a government contract,” said Melkor.  “This shit’s hush-hush, not to mention lucrative.  I’m going to need someone to make sure it’s protected.”

              “Why me?”

              “You’re smart,” said Melkor.  “You’re efficient.  You have experience.  I think you’d be good at it, and I think that if the situation called for, um, unusual methods, you’d be the guy I’d trust to get shit done.  Plus, I hear the boss is pretty cool.”

              Gothmog laughed.  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

              Eight hours later, Gothmog trudged back into his apartment to find Melkor still seated at the kitchen table, a mess of papers strewn in front of him.  Melkor looked up as Gothmog entered, raising an eyebrow.  “What happened to you?”

              Gothmog looked down at the vomit on his shoes, the blood on his shirt.  He could smell the beer that had been thrown in his face.  He could feel the shiner on his right eye socket, deepening into a bruise.  He grimaced.  “That job you were talking about earlier,” he said. 

              “Yeah?” said Melkor.

              “I’ll take it.”

 

             


	6. I Can See For Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Melkor met Mairon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All good seductions start with insulting someone in their own lab, right?

                It was late afternoon, and Melkor wandered through an empty lab, looking at the detritus covering the benches on either side of him.  Loose sheets of paper and bulging notebooks were strewn haphazardly around the scuffed black surface, interspersed with prototypes in various stages of assembly.  He picked up a half-molded piece of plastic, turning it over in his hands as though trying to figure out what it was supposed to be.  He set it aside and picked up a scribbled-on sheet of paper, his eyes raking interestedly over the notes that covered it.

                “Can I help you?”

                Melkor turned toward the unexpected voice, still holding the paper in his hand.  “Probably not,” said Melkor, eyeing the stranger in front of him.  He was a young man, shorter than Melkor, and slender.  His hair, shoulder-length and an impossible shade of red-gold, was gathered neatly into a ponytail.  Melkor noted the studs piercing the other man’s ears, four on each lobe, and thought how incongruous they looked paired with the other man’s neatly-tucked shirt and khaki slacks.  He wore a lab coat, neatly buttoned, with an ID badge clipped to the breast pocket.  Melkor studied the picture, far more flattering than any school ID picture had any right to be, and looked at last at the name below it.

                “Mairon,” he read, studying the badge for a moment more before straightening up and looking again at its owner.

                “Are you looking for someone?” Mairon asked.  His voice was polite, accommodating.  “Aulë, maybe?” he suggested.

                “God, no,” said Melkor, giving an exaggerated shudder.  “He’s not around, is he?”

                “He’s in a meeting.”  Melkor glanced uneasily toward the door.  “Across campus,” he added.

                “Oh, good,” said Melkor, looking relieved.

                Mairon shifted his weight and cocked his head.  “You know,” he said slowly, as though he were choosing his words carefully, “this lab is restricted access.”

                “I know,” said Melkor.

                “I’m pretty sure the door was locked.”

                “Yeah,” said Melkor.  “I’m good at picking locks.”

                “It’s keycode access.”

                “I didn’t specify what kind of locks.”

                “Uh-huh.”  His cocked his head, looking Melkor up and down.  “I should call security, you know,” he said.  “I mean, you did just admit to breaking and entering.”

                “You could,” said Melkor.  “But then you might never catch the math error you made in these calculations.”

                “There’s no math error in those calculations.”  The cordiality was gone from Mairon’s voice, replaced by thinly-veiled hostility.

                “Fine,” said Melkor.  “Have it your way.”  He set the paper back down on the bench and rifled idly through some of the clutter.  Then he turned and sauntered toward the door.

                “Where are you going?” Mairon demanded.

                “To get coffee,” said Melkor.  “I got, like, three hours of sleep last night.  I need a little kick.”  He stood there, his hand on the door handle, considering Mairon.  “You can come, if you want.”

                “I think I’ll pass,” said Mairon.

                Melkor shrugged.  “Suit yourself,” he said.  He turned the handle and half-opened the door, but he still lingered in the doorway a moment more.  “Nice tie, by the way,” he said, smirking at Mairon.  “Very, uh, professional.”  He turned at last and went through the door, letting it close behind him.  Mairon watched the door swing shut, hearing the soft click as it locked.  He looked down at his tie, running his fingers over the light green fabric.  He frowned and turned toward the bench, snatching up the paper Melkor had discarded it and carefully scanning each equation.  He made a noise of disgust and stalked out of the lab, pushing his way through the crowded hall as he went.

                Five minutes later, he pushed his way into a coffee shop just off-campus.  Melkor was standing at the counter, thumbing through his phone as he waited.  Mairon shouldered his way through the line until he was level with Melkor, tapping his arm to get his attention.  Melkor looked up, surprise written on his face.  “Mairon,” he said.  “What—”

                “I found it,” said Mairon.  “It’s nitpicky, and frankly not actually wrong, but I found it.”

                “What are you—”

                “The mistake,” said Mairon.  “If you look at this equation, you might think that…”

                Melkor listened, bemused, to Mairon’s rapid-fire tirade.  Mairon hacked apart every equation on the page, telling Melkor exactly why he had written it as it appeared on the page.  He also explained what could have been done instead, why he hadn’t used these options, and what changes might improve the overall function of his design.

                Melkor was an engineer; he had years’ worth of experience in higher mathematics, some even relevant to the subject at hand.  Still, he listened with wonder as Mairon spoke, absorbing less the sheer volume of information than the way Mairon’s mind darted artfully between every possible outcome.

                “Melkor,” said the barista, setting down a cup on the counter and walking away.  Melkor turned and picked up the cup.  When he turned back, Mairon was looking at him expectantly.

                “So,” said Mairon, “which was it?”

                “Huh?” said Melkor, nonplussed.

                “The mistake,” said Mairon impatiently.  “Which was it?”

                “Oh,” said Melkor, shaking his head.  “None of it, actually.”

                “What?” said Mairon, staring down at the paper suspiciously.  “But I went through every possible correction.  I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Melkor.  “And, not gonna lie, it was pretty cool to watch.  But there was no mistake.”

                “But you said—”

                “I lied,” said Melkor, smirking.  “Guess you forgot about that option.”

                “Why?” Mairon demanded.  “Why would you do that?”

                “Because,” said Melkor, “I knew it would drive you up a fucking wall.”  His phone chimed, and he looked down at the screen.  “Shit,” he said.  “I’m late.  Nice meeting you, Mairon.”  He turned and picked his way through the crowd before disappearing out the door. 

*****

                It was almost two weeks before Mairon saw him again.  He heard the door open, and he looked up to see Melkor saunter inside, looking around with interest.  “I changed that keycode,” said Mairon.

                “I know,” said Melkor.  “Took me a couple minutes to figure it out.  It wasn’t anything obvious.”

                “Obvious?”

                “Yeah, like Aulë’s street address, or your birthday.”

                “Why would my birthday be—Jesus, are you stalking me?”

                “Stalking is such a negative word,” said Melkor

                “For good reason,” said Mairon.

                “Anyway,” said Melkor, ignoring him, “I was thinking about our discussion the other day.  I have some ideas.”  He took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, holding it out to Mairon.

                “We weren’t having a discussion,” said Mairon, folding his arms across his chest.

                “You’re right,” said Melkor.  “Discussion implies a two-way conversation.”

                Despite himself, Mairon felt his cheeks grow hot.  “You lied to me,” he said.

                “Yes,” said Melkor.  “But on the bright side, I got a whole bunch of cool info out of it, not to mention some interesting ideas.”

                “I bet you did,” said Mairon.

                “What’s really interesting, though,” said Melkor, “is how you even found me in the first place.  I didn’t tell you where I was going.”

                “Yes,” said Mairon.  “You did.”

                “I told you I was going for coffee,” said Melkor.  “I didn’t say where.”

                “You were going for coffee,” said Mairon.  “I assumed you weren’t going far.  There are seven coffee shops in about a four-block radius of this building.  Four are campus-affiliated; you don’t look like a student, so I figured you weren’t going to one of those.  One’s a Starbucks, and one’s a Dunkin’.  I guess you could’ve gone to one of those, but the last one is this weird little place with a punk vibe and since you dress like you shop exclusively at Hot Topic—”

                “You take that back,” said Melkor, affronted.  “And while you’re at it, apologize to Joe Strummer.”  He stroked the front of his shirt, running his fingers over the peeling picture of the _London Calling_ album cover emblazoned on his chest. 

                “I just made the logical conclusion,” said Mairon, ignoring him.

                “Logical, yes,” said Melkor.  “But most normal people wouldn’t have made it.”

                “That’s nice,” Mairon said, rolling his eyes.

                “It’s a compliment,” said Melkor.

                “Is it?’

                “Normal is boring and overrated,” said Melkor.  “You not either of those things.”

                “You don’t know that,” said Mairon.  “You don’t know anything about me.”

                “I know you’re smart,” said Melkor.  “I know you have good ideas, and I know you’re dying to look at what’s on this piece of paper.”  He brandished it once more in front of Mairon, who kept his arms stubbornly crossed.

                “I’m really not,” he said.

                “Fine,” said Melkor.  “Play it cool.  I’ll just leave this here, and you can check it out later.”  He set the paper down on the bench.  Then he turned and headed for the door, pausing as he reached it to look back at Mairon.  “Should I leave my number?” he asked. “You know, in case you want to talk?”  In answer, Mairon picked up the paper, crumpled it in his hands, and tossed it into the trash.  “Alright,” said Melkor.  “I can take a hint.  Let me know if you change your mind.”  He walked out the door and disappeared down the hall.

                Curumo, Mairon’s lab mate, peeked out from behind his computer screen and stared after Melkor’s retreating back.  “Do you even know who that was?” he asked.

                “Some jerk,” said Mairon.  “Says his name is Melkor.”

                “That’s Melkor Bauglir,” said Curumo, sounding impressed.  “He owns this company—Utumno.  It was named, like, the most successful startup in the world last year.”

                “Good for him,” said Mairon.  “He’s still a jerk.”

                “Yeah,” said Curumo, “but he has money and an up-and-coming business.”

                “You’re too easily impressed,” said Mairon.  “You always have been.  It’s going to get you in trouble some day.”

                “All I’m saying,” said Curumo, “is that you’re getting close to graduation.  You might want to give the guy a chance.  Who knows?  You might get a job offer out of it.”

                Mairon laughed.  “That’ll be the day,” he said.  “Me, working for that idiot.  Anyway, Aulë would kill me.  You know how he feels about the private sector.”

                “Yeah,” said Curumo.  “You’re right.  Still, it’s cool to think about.”

                “You ought to think about your work,” said Mairon.  “You’re a good three months behind everyone else in the lab, and that’s being generous.”

                Abashed, Curumo slid his chair to the right and disappeared behind his computer screen.  Mairon sat at his desk, peering left and right, but other than Curumo, the lab was empty.  He glanced quickly at Curumo’s workstation, but Curumo seemed focused on his own work.  Mairon pulled up the browser on his computer and typed ‘Melkor Bauglir Utumno’ into the search bar.  The company’s website was the first hit.  Against his better judgement, he opened the site and began to read.

                Hours later, when the lab was dark and empty, Mairon pushed himself back from his computer at last.  He leaned over and plucked the crumpled paper Melkor had given him out of the trash.  Smoothing it out, he began to read.

*****

                “I was thinking,” said Mairon, spreading papers on the table in front of him, “about the integration problem you were telling me about.”

                “Yeah?” said Melkor, peering at him over the top of a laminated menu.  “I was thinking about how far out of town this place is.  I drove around the same three blocks for, like, twenty minutes looking for it.”

                “Sorry,” said Mairon sheepishly.  “It’s just, well, you know.”

                “Yeah, yeah,” said Melkor.  “You don’t want to be seen with me.  I get it.”

                “Don’t be like that,” said Mairon.  “I just…I mean, you know how Aulë is.”

                “He’s an asshole,” said Melkor.

                “He’s brilliant,” said Mairon, “and he’s a great mentor.”

                “He’s an asshole,” Melkor repeated, “and he’s stifling you.”

                “I didn’t come here to talk about Aulë,” said Mairon, an edge in his voice. 

                “Alright,” said Melkor, placating.  “Alright.  You want food?”

                “Nah,” said Mairon.  “I’m broke until my loans come through.”

                “I’m buying,” said Melkor.  “No strings attached,” he added, noting Mairon’s reticence.  Mairon bit his lip, hesitating.  “Come on,” Melkor cajoled.  “You can’t think on an empty stomach.”

                “I have years of experience that say otherwise.”

                “As in most things,” said Melkor, “you are an exception.  The rest of us need to eat.”

                For the next hour, that is exactly what they did.  Melkor ordered what seemed like one of everything on the menu, the plates covering nearly every available surface of the table when they arrived.  Despite his initial reticence, Mairon picked a little at everything, eating until he was content.  He talked as he ate, handing papers across the table to Melkor and endeavoring to wince only slightly as Melkor’s fingers trailed ketchup and hot sauce onto the edges. 

                “I’m gonna tell you something,” said Melkor, laying the page in his hand to the side.  “This is really good.”

                “It’s alright,” said Mairon.  “It’s nowhere near done.”  He eyed the puddle of grease creeping toward his notes.

                “Alright?” said Melkor.  “This is better than anything my engineers have come up with in the last six months.”

                “You need some new engineers,” said Mairon.

                “If only I knew any bright, young engineering minds,” said Melkor.

                Mairon laughed; Melkor didn’t.  Mairon’s smile faded.  “You’re serious,” he said, though he didn’t sound entirely certain. 

                Melkor shrugged, noncommittal.  “Why not?”

                Mairon raked a hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically flustered.  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, reaching across the table and plucking his notes out from under Melkor’s hand.  “Utumno is pretty incredible.  Your tech is ahead of its time, and honestly, sometimes I think I’d kill for the resources your R&D has—”

                “But?” said Melkor, an edge of impatience in his voice.

                “I can’t,” said Mairon.  He shook his head, and Melkor thought he might actually look apologetic.

                “Why not?” Melkor asked again.

                “It’s not my area,” Mairon said. 

                “Dude,” said Melkor, “no one does exactly what they were trained in.  It’s engineering.  It’s a translatable science.”

                “Look, I could probably figure it out,” said Mairon.  “Almost certainly, actually.  But that’s not the point.”

                “Then what is the point?”

                 “I wasn’t made for the private sector,” Mairon said, smiling ruefully.  “I trained in academia.  Aulë sponsored me.  I owe him my education.”

                “He’s your advisor,” said Melkor.  “That’s his job.”

                “Still,” said Mairon.

                Melkor looked at him, a piercing gaze that seemed to pass right through him.  Mairon stared back, unflinching.

                “Not everyone deserves your loyalty,” Melkor said.

                “Not everyone gets it,” said Mairon.

                Melkor nodded slowly, appreciatively.  “You’re a good kid, Mairon.  You know that, don’t you?”

                Mairon snorted.  “You’re, what?  Four years older than me?  Five?”

                “Take the compliment, you ass.”

                Mairon laughed.  “I should go,” he said.  “I have class.”

                “Class?” said Melkor.  “Jesus, isn’t this your last semester?”

                “Yes,” said Mairon sheepishly.  “I should’ve been done with class two years ago.  I’ve been putting this one off.”

                “Which class?”

                “Advanced Engineering Design.  It’s basically a design project.”

                “Shit,” said Melkor.  “You could do that with your eyes closed.”

                “I know,” said Mairon.

                “But?” Melkor prompted.

                “Huh?” said Mairon.  He shook his head.  “Oh.  Nothing.  I have to go.”

                “Alright,” said Melkor.  “I can take a hint.”  He pulled his wallet from his pocket and tossed a few crumpled bills onto the table.  Mairon tried not to stare at the cash.  The tip alone was more than he had in his bank account.  “Come on,” said Melkor, shrugging into his jacket.  “I’ll give you a ride.”

*****

                Melkor’s phone rang loudly, blaring _Fight For Your Right_ into the quiet of the conference room.  The presenter stopped speaking, momentarily startled.  “My bad,” Melkor said, fumbling his phone out of his pocket.  He glanced at the screen, frowning slightly.  “I have to take this,” he said, pushing himself up from the table.

                “But sir,” said the engineer at the front of the room, the one whose presentation had been interrupted.  “I wasn’t finished.”

                “You were,” Melkor said.  “You just didn’t know it.”  He punched the button on his phone to accept the call.  “Oh, and one more thing,” he said, looking once more at the presenter.  “You’re fired.” He grinned and sauntered out of the room, holding his phone up to his ear.  “Yeah,” he said.

                “Hey,” said Mairon.  “Sorry to call you in the middle of the day.  Am I interrupting anything?”

                “Nothing important,” Melkor said.  “What’s up?”

                “I wanted to ask you something,” Mairon said.  “A favor.”

                “I’m always up for letting people indebt themselves to me,” said Melkor.  “Ask away.”

                “It’s about the integration thing you showed me.”

                “Uh-oh,” said Melkor.  “Is this the part where I regret not making you sign a nondisclosure agreement?”

                “What?” Mairon said, sounding genuinely confused.  “Oh,” he said, catching up.  “No.  I mean, not yet, anyway.”

                “Okay,” said Melkor.  “What about it?”

                “I wanted to know if I can use the premise for my design project.”

                “Are you serious?”

                “I’ll change the details,” Mairon said quickly.  “I won’t use anything proprietary or mention Utumno at all.  I can send you all my information before I use it, too.  You can have full rights to refuse at any point.”

                Melkor laughed.  “I’m surprised at you, Mairon.”

                “Why’s that?”

                “I’d have thought you’d want something more original than my dumb little internal hiccup for your senior design project.  I’d bet big money you’ve got about fifty little pet projects stored in that ridiculous head of yours at any given moment.  Why not use one of those?”

                “I like your internal hiccup,” Mairon said.  “It was a good challenge and I—”He hesitated.

                “You what?” Melkor prompted

                “I like the solution I came up with,” Mairon said, his voice quiet and hesitant. 

                Melkor grinned.  He was fairly certain that, had he been in eyeshot of Mairon, he would’ve seen a blush creeping over that fair, freckled skin.  “You should,” Melkor said.  “It was a good solution.  Very smart, and very neat.”

                “Thanks,” Mairon said.

                “Eh,” Melkor said.  “What the hell.  Knock yourself out, kid.”

                “Really?”

                “Yes, really.  Change the details or whatever like you said, please.  Other than that, it’s all yours.”

                “Awesome!  Thanks, Melkor.  I owe you one.”

                “You solved my design problem.  We’ll call it even.”

                “I owe you one,” Mairon said firmly.  There was silence for a moment on the line.  “Melkor?” Mairon said at last.

                “Yeah?”

                “Thanks for giving me the raw material for this project.  Thanks for trusting me with it.”

                “I told you, dude.  No problem.  Hey, listen.  You need anything else?”

                “I don’t think so.”

                “Let me know if you do.  I gotta get back to a meeting.”

                “You should’ve said!  I’m sorry.”

                “Don’t be,” Melkor.  “It’s not going to last long anyway.  I think I just fired the project engineer.  Whoops.”

                “I’ll send you my designs for approval way in advance.”

                “Not necessary.”

                “I know.  I’ll let you go.  Bye, Melkor.”

*****

                Despite Melkor’s insistence that it didn’t matter, Mairon was as good as his word.  He sent copies of his assignments to Melkor two weeks before they were due, with notes explaining exactly what he had changed and how it had been presented.  Melkor dutifully sent him a note of approval for every one.  Not that Melkor cared, really.  Mairon had said he would change the names and details, and Melkor believed him.  Still, Mairon had a love for order, and for documentation, and so Melkor complied.

                As the semester drew on, Mairon’s communications grew more frequent, more enthusiastic.  The barrage of calls and texts and emails would have, from anyone else, driven Melkor up the wall, yet there was something compelling, something oddly endearing about Mairon’s passion that stayed Melkor’s annoyance.  It could have, he reflected later, been the fact that Mairon’s designs were just that good.  He hadn’t lied to Mairon; the designs really were better than what Utumno’s R&D had produced.  Melkor had mentioned the prospect of graduation a few times, and of the openings in his company, but Mairon remained reticent, and Melkor knew better than to push.

                Finally, the end of the semester approached.  Mairon successfully defended his dissertation.

                “Technically,” Melkor had said, “that’s all you need.  You could probably fail this stupid class and still graduate next month.”

                “Actually, I couldn’t,” Mairon had said.  “It’s a required class.  But I know what you mean.”

                “Stop stressing,” Melkor had said

                “It’s in my nature,” Mairon had said, and he had laughed.  “It’s what I do.”

                It was the last week of term, though Melkor didn’t know it.  He was elbows-deep in completed job applications, and he had the distinct suspicion that each one he read was dragging years of his life from him.  Normally, he would have asked Thuringwethil to help him.  They lacked any real, functioning HR at Utumno, but Thil was the next best thing.  She had a penchant for weeding out truly terrible job applicants that Melkor found very useful for reducing the number of proposals he had to read.  But Thil was on vacation, not due back for a week, and Melkor was alone with his miserable, unhappy work.

                His phone rang, and he slid it closer, relieved.  He had been seriously considering gouging out an eye with a pencil rather than reading another page of text; the phone was a welcome relief.  “Yeah,” he said, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

                “What are you doing?” demanded the voice on the other line.

                Melkor recognized it, though the tone was unfamiliar.  “Mairon?” he said

                “What are you doing?” Mairon said again, his tone hurried, urgent.

                “Reading applications for our open engineering positions,” he said. 

                “Can you take a break?”

                “Gladly.  What’s up?”

                “Can we talk?”

                “Yeah, sure.  What—”

                “I’m downstairs.”

                “Come on up,” Melkor said, and he hung up the phone.

                He didn’t have to wait long.  Mairon stalked into his office and threw down a thick manila folder of papers onto the desk.  “Look at it,” Mairon growled.

                “It’s a folder,” Melkor said.

                “It’s my project,” Mairon said.  “My final design project.”

                “Oh, cool.  How’d you do?”

                “B minus,” Mairon said, with far more venom than Melkor thought was warranted.

                “That’s great, dude.”

                “It’s not!” Mairon said, looking affronted.  “I’ve never gotten anything but an A in any class, ever.”

                “First time for everything,” Melkor said, trying to sound sympathetic.

                “Not for me,” Mairon said.  “I don’t get bad grades.”

                “It’s not a bad grade,” Melkor said.  “I’d have killed for grades like this.  Then again, I was a really fucking lazy student.”

                “I’m not,” Mairon said vehemently.  “I’m the opposite of that.”

                “I know,” said Mairon, aiming for conciliatory this time. 

                “I’m conscientious,” Mairon said.  “I’m careful.  I’m thorough.  I had my assignments in weeks before anyone else did, and I put in three times the work they did.”

                “I don’t doubt it,” Melkor said.

                “But he didn’t care,” Mairon said.  “It didn’t matter.  He didn’t like it from the beginning.  He wanted me to change it, but I wouldn’t.”

                “Who, your professor?”

                “Who else?” Mairon snapped.  He caught himself.  “Sorry,” he said, rubbing his temples.  “I’m sorry, Melkor.”

                “Don’t be.  You have every right to be angry.  Your professor sounds like a dick.”

                “It isn’t fair,” Mairon said.  There was something unfamiliar in his voice that, after a moment, Melkor recognized as hurt.  So this was personal, he thought.

                “Look,” he said carefully.  “I know you’re upset, and you should be.  But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter.  You passed.  You already defended.  You can graduate and move on, right?”

                “God, I wish,” said Mairon miserably.

                Intrigue pricked at Melkor.  “Out of curiosity,” he said carefully, “who’s this professor that dicked you over so bad?”

                Mairon looked wretched, his eyes fixed on the floor.  “Aulë,” he said quietly. 

                Melkor felt an unexpected, protective rage welling up inside of him.  “I should have known,” he growled.  “That’s so fucking typical.”  Aulë knew, he had to know, how much Mairon worshipped him.  Mairon couldn’t help it; he was a perfectionist at heart, a pleaser, a man fed most happily on approval and praise.  And these were things, Melkor thought angrily, so easily bestowed on someone like Mairon, someone so clever and so bold.  “You listen to me, Mairon.  You have more talent in one hand that I could wring out of that whole department, professors included.  And if Aulë can’t see that—”

                Mairon shook his head.  “He said…”

                “What?” Melkor said, stifling his anger to coax him.  “What did he say?”

                “He said I could be great,” said Mairon quietly, “if I would just stick to the path instead of trying to make my own.”

                “That,” said Melkor, “is a load of shit, and he knows it.  You don’t get new things by sticking to the same goddamn path as everyone else.”

                “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” Mairon said.  “I just wanted to make something new.”

                “I know,” said Melkor, trying to be conciliatory.  “And why shouldn’t you?”

                “I just don’t understand,” Mairon said.  “Why would he say that?”

                “Because Aulë hasn’t had a decent innovation in twenty years,” Melkor said.  “Because to him, you’re a threat.  Because he knows damn well that, given the chance and the freedom, you can make things that make his work look like a nine-year-old’s fucking science fair project.  And because,” he added, unable to help himself, “he’s a petty fucking asshole.”

                “He told me I have too high an opinion of myself,” Mairon said.  “He said it’s going to be my downfall someday.”

                “That’s nice,” Melkor said, rolling his eyes.  “From a guy who claims to have your best interests at heart.”

                Mairon shrugged.  “You don’t get better without criticism.”

                “Constructive criticism,” Melkor corrected.  “There’s nothing constructive about the way he talks to you.”

                “I’m supposed to post doc with him,” Mairon said.  “He has it lined up and everything.”

                “But?” Melkor prompted, hearing Mairon’s reticence.

                “It’s a great position,” Mairon said.  “And in this economy…”

                “But?” Melkor said again.

                “But,” Mairon began, and then shook his head.  “I don’t know.  Maybe he’s right.  Maybe I do think too highly of myself.”

                “Say what you wanted to say,” Melkor said.

                Mairon hesitated a moment, and then he said, “I feel like there’s so much I could accomplish—so much I could do.”

                “But not with Aulë.”

                “I don’t know,” Mairon said.  “I just don’t know.”

                “I’m going to tell you something, Mairon.  I don’t think it matters where you go or who you work for.  You’re going to do great things, incredible things.  Things no one else could’ve even conceived.  The only question,” he said, watching Mairon’s face, “is whether you do it on your terms, or someone else’s.”

                For a brief, fleeting moment, Melkor could see the roil of emotion written on Mairon’s usually stoic face.  There was hurt there, and confusion, but he could also see anger, seething just below the surface.  Then it was gone, smoothed away under the carefully constructed neutrality Mairon loved to wear.

                “I should go,” Mairon said.  “I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”  He started for the door.

                “Stop it,” Melkor said, with enough force that Mairon stopped walking and turned back, looking curiously at Melkor.  “Stop undervaluing yourself,” Melkor said.  “You’re a far better judge of quality than that, and you know it.”

                Mairon stared at him for a moment, indecision written plainly on his face.  Then he smiled, just a small, fleeting quirk of his lips, and he nodded.  He turned once more and walked out the door, disappearing down the hall.

*****

                “Mairon!”

                Mairon heard his name called through the crowd, and he turned to find Melkor pushing his way toward him.  “Melkor?” he said, a grin coming unbidden to his face.  “What are you doing here?”

                “It’s your graduation,” Melkor said.  “And since I’m a contributing factor in your successful education—“

                “Oh, are you?”

                “How soon you forget my contribution to your design project, you ungrateful thing.  And anyway, I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to see you have to wear that ridiculous hat.”

                “I got my degree,” Mairon said.  “I’ll wear the stupid hat for an hour.”

                “Small consolation,” Melkor said, and Mairon laughed.  “Look, I won’t keep you.  I just wanted to give you this.”  He held out the box that had been tucked beneath his arm.

                “You didn’t have to get me anything,” Mairon said, taking the box.

                “I know,” Melkor said.  “I’m just, like, really fucking nice.”  Mairon laughed.  “Hey, I gotta go.  There’s a whole crowd of people here I really don’t want to see.”

                “It’s cool,” Mairon said.  “Thanks for coming.”

                “Wouldn’t have missed it,” Melkor said.  He smiled.  “Congratulations, Dr. Smith.”

                He turned on his heel and disappeared through the crowd, cutting his way toward the parking lot.  Mairon watched him until he was lost in the sea of graduates and their families.  Then he turned his attention back to the box, a plain thing, unwrapped and unadorned.

                He tipped the lid off and slid it underneath, nesting it under its counterpart.  Inside, nestled on a bed of paper, was a small, scale model.  He picked it up, turning the tiny aircraft over in his hands.  He slipped it back into the box and picked up the papers beneath it, smiling faintly as he recognized the pages he had sent to Melkor throughout the semester.  On the bottom of the box, there was an envelope; his name was scrawled across it.  He picked it up, letting the papers slide back into the box.  He slid a fingernail under the seal and prized it open, pulling out the card inside.  There was a single folded sheet of paper in the card, and Mairon shifted it aside to read the single line of text scrawled there. 

_Good work should be rewarded.  M._

                Mairon smiled and turned his attention to the paper that had been folded inside, pulling the edges apart and smoothing it in his hand.  It was a form, he realized, the blanks neatly filled with the relevant information.  A patent filing, he saw, reading the heading.  Filed by M. Bauglir and—he drew in a breath, sharp and loud.  There, sitting unlooked for on the line next to it, was his own name: M. Smith, PhD.

                All the worry and the indecision that had plagued him those last few months melted away to sharp, knowing clarity.  He rearranged the contents of the box back into order and slid the lid into place.  Then, steeling himself, he made his way through the crowd.  It was time to talk to Aulë.

*****

                Melkor looked up at the knock on his door.  “Interesting choice,” he said, sitting back and beckoning Mairon inside.

                “What do you mean?” Mairon asked.

                “If I had finished the academic marathon you just did, I’d be sitting on a fucking beach somewhere.”

                Mairon raised an eyebrow.  “Really?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

                “Fuck no,” said Melkor.  “I’d be blackout drunk somewhere.  Same intent, though.”

                Mairon laughed.  “Relaxation isn’t really my thing.”

                “Yeah, I got that.”

                “I wanted to thank you,” Mairon said. 

                “For what?”

                Mairon pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the desk.  “This,” he said.  “You didn’t have to do it.”

                Melkor looked at the patent filing.  “No,” he said.  “I guess I didn’t.”

                “Why did you?”

                Melkor shrugged.  “Some people would say it was the right thing to do.”

                “You’re not some people,” Mairon said.  “That’s not why you did it.”

                Melkor considered him for a moment.  “I know what it’s like,” he said.  “I know what it feels like to have your work disregarded.  For some old, set-in-his-ways bastard to shit all over something you worked so hard to make, just because it wasn’t what he wanted you to make.”  There was something strange in his eyes, some spark of old anger that flared up before sinking back down.  Mairon could see it still, a glowing ember, burning low but never dead.  He recognized it.  In that moment, he was decided.

                “A couple months ago,” Mairon said, “you told me you were looking for some bright, young engineering minds down in R&D.”

                Melkor laughed.  “You think I’d hire you to work in my R&D department?  Please.”

                “I—”Mairon hesitated, momentarily nonplussed.  “But you said—”

                “I’m not hiring you for a grunt position debugging code in some basement lab downstairs.  That’s a waste of your skills, and you know it.  No,” he said, opening the top drawer of his desk and digging through the detritus within.  “If I’m going to hire you, it’s going to be for much bigger, better things.  Aha!”  He sat back, brandishing a dusty placard in his hand triumphantly.  “I had this made like, three years ago,” he said.  “Never found someone to use it.”  He tossed the placard across the desk, and Mairon picked it up.

                “Director of Research and Development,” he read, his fingers tracing over the letters.  He looked up again at Melkor.  “I’ve never directed anything in my life,” he said.

                “Neither had I,” Melkor said.  “Until I did.”  He looked at Mairon for a moment, as though sizing him up.  “You want to do something with your life,” he said.                  “Something great.”

                “Yes,” Mairon said.

                “Here’s your chance,” Melkor said. “Take it or leave it.”

                Mairon turned the placard over in his hands, considering.  Then he placed it on the edge of the desk and sighed.  He looked up at Melkor and held out his hand. 

                Melkor grinned and shook Mairon’s hand.  “Welcome aboard,” he said.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)


	7. Poker Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a brand new Utumno employee, Mairon is invited to play poker with his fellow executives.
> 
> He's never invited again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka how Mairon ruined poker night.

Mairon looked up, the knock on his door breaking his concentration.  “Melkor,” he said, sitting up in his chair and hurriedly straightening the papers on his desk.

“Busy?” Melkor asked, sauntering into Mairon’s office.

“No,” said Mairon.

“Shouldn’t you be?”

A slight flush came to Mairon’s cheeks.  “I—”

“Relax,” Melkor said, grinning.  “I’m just giving you a hard time.”  He walked in a slow circle around the office, looking idly at the sparse furnishings.  “So,” he said, after a moment.  “You’ve been here a month.”

“Yes.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s different,” Mairon said. 

“Different good, or different bad?”

“Good,” Mairon said.  “Definitely good.  It’s just new.”

“Any problems?”

“None I can’t handle.”

Melkor grinned.  “That’s what I like to hear.” He stopped walking and turned instead to face Mairon at his desk.  “So,” he said.  “You have any plans for tonight?”

“What?” Mairon said, momentarily confused by the abrupt change of pace.

“Plans,” Melkor said.  “You know.  Shit you do outside of work?”

Mairon shook his head.  “I was going to stay here for a while,” Mairon said.  “Catch up on some work.”

“Can I interest you in some actual plans?  Ones that don’t involve sitting in your office on a Friday night?”

“Depends,” said Mairon.  “What are you offering?”

“An exclusive invitation,” Melkor said, “to the Utumno executives’ biweekly poker night.”

“I don’t really play poker,” Mairon said.

“It’s not really about the poker,” Melkor said.

“No?”

“It’s about the people playing poker.”

“You,” said Mairon, “Thuringwethil, and Gothmog?”

“Utumno works,” Melkor said, “in no small part because of the people I’ve picked to help me run it.  It works because my executives trust each other, because each of us knows the others are capable of doing whatever it takes to come out on top.”  He gave Mairon an appraising look.  “You’re one of those executives now.”

“No pressure,” Mairon said.

“They need to trust you,” Melkor said, “and they need to respect you.  Part of that comes from your work.  They see how good you are at your job, and they know you deserve your position.  Part of it comes from me.  They know I trust you, and since they trust me, they trust you too.  The other part, though,” he said, shrugging, “it just comes with time.”

“It’s important to you, isn’t it?” Mairon asked.  “That they like me, I mean.”

“Yes,” Melkor said.

“Alright, then,” Mairon said.  “I’ll play poker.  I can’t promise to be good at it, though.”

“Then I look forward to taking your money.”  Mairon laughed, and Melkor grinned.  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said, and sauntered out the way he had come.

*****

“So,” said Gothmog, handing a beer to Mairon.  “You ever played poker before?”

“Once or twice,” said Mairon, taking the bottle.  “It’s been a while, though.  I might need a refresher on the rules.”

“We can do that,” said Melkor.  “The game is five card draw.  Are we ready to play?”

“Ready,” Gothmog said.

“Give me the cards,” said Thuringwethil.  Melkor slid the deck across the table to her.  She unboxed them and began to shuffle.

“Thil’s the dealer,” said Gothmog.  “Thil’s always the dealer.”

“She doesn’t trust me,” said Melkor.

“That’s because you cheat,” said Thuringwethil, expertly shuffling the cards.

“I play to win,” said Melkor.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Thuringwethil.  She tapped the cards on the table to straighten them.  “Are we playing or what?”

“Deal a practice hand,” Gothmog said.  “Show Mairon how it works.”

Thuringwethil dealt five cards to each of them in turn, all face-down.  When she had dealt, the four of them picked up their cards.  “Each player has five cards at any given time,” Thuringwethil said.  “You can have a chance to get new ones partway through the round, but you have to discard to get anything new.”

“Okay,” said Mairon, looking at his cards.

“The goal,” said Gothmog, “is to have the best hand.”

“Well,” said Melkor, “a better hand than the other three idiots at your table, anyway.”

 “What makes a good hand?” Mairon asked.

“Good cards,” Melkor said.

“There’s some low-level things that can win in a pinch,” Gothmog said.  “A pair.  Three of a kind.”

“Exactly what they sound like,” Thuringwethil said.  “Two sixes, three aces, et cetera.”

“But you’re not going to win with those unless everyone else’s hand is shit,” Melkor said.

“You want to try for something better,” Gothmog said.

“Like what?” Mairon asked.

“Full house is probably easiest,” Gothmog said.  “Two of one kind, three of another.”

“Like two sixes and three aces,” Thuringwethil said.

“It’ll beat a pair or three of a kind,” Melkor said, “but not much else.”

“You could go for a straight,” Gothmog said.  “Any five cards in a row, regardless of suit.  Four, five, six, seven, eight.  That kind of thing.  You could go for a flush, which is five cards of the same suit, regardless of order.”

“Or there’s a straight flush,” Thuringwethil said.  “Five cards, sequential order, same suit.  Like two, three, four, five, and six of diamonds.”

“Do that with face cards,” Melkor said, “and it’s a royal flush.”

“Is there, like, a ranking I should know about?” Mairon asked.  “For which one beats which?”

“Don’t worry,” Melkor said.  “We’ll tell you if you win.”

“Will you tell me the truth?”

Melkor laughed.  “Tell you what, newbie,” he said.  “I’ll let you keep your phone.  You can google it and find out.”

“A pair is the bottom of the order,” Thuringwethil said.  “Then two pair, then three of a kind, a straight, a flush, full house, four of a kind, straight flush, and royal flush.”

“So I want to aim for a royal flush,” Mairon said.

“Aim high,” Melkor said.  “I like it.”

“It’s rare,” Thuringwethil said.  “And unlikely.  And anyway, it really depends on the cards you have in your hand.”

“So it’s luck,” Mairon said.

“It’s also strategy,” Gothmog said.  “You get to discard any slash all of your cards before the round’s over.  You have to pick your discards based on what you think you could make with cards you pick up.”

“Are we done talking?” Melkor said.

“We’re teaching,” Thuringwethil said.

“Learn by doing,” Melkor said.  He turned to Mairon.  “Show me your cards.”

Mairon laid his cards face up on the table.  “A two,” Thuringwethil said.  “A three, two sixes and a jack.”

“A pair,” Mairon said.  “That was a thing on the list.”

“The bottom of the list,” Melkor said.  “The rest of us would have to only have pairs, and only of cards lower than a six.”

“The two and the three could be the beginning of a straight,” Gothmog said.

“Or the sixes could be part of a full house,” Thuringwethil said.

“Jesus,” said Mairon.  “This is complicated.”

“You make computer code that flies aircraft,” said Melkor.  “I think you can handle a little simple gambling.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Mairon said.

“So based on what you have,” Thuringwethil said, “you have to bet.”

“My cards aren’t great,” Mairon said.

“Neither are mine,” said Gothmog, showing Mairon his hand.  “But in a real game, neither of us would know.  If your cards are shit, you can always bet low and take your chances on the draw.”

“Or if your cards are really shit,” Thuringwethil said, “you can fold.”

“Which is a bitch move,” said Melkor.  “But technically legal.”

“Sometimes it’s better to concede the battle and win the war.”

“Or you can just win everything,” Melkor said.

“That’s what you said last time,” said Thuringwethil.  “You still owe me seventy bucks, by the way.”

“We’ll settle up at the end of the night,” said Melkor, grinning.

“If I bet low,” Mairon said, “won’t everyone know I’ve got a crap hand?”

“Probably,” Gothmog said.  “But you can always bluff.”

“He’s new,” Melkor said.  “Don’t give him ideas.”

“What do you mean, bluff?” Mairon asked.

“If you think your opponents are stupid,” Melkor said, “you can pretend to have a better hand than you do.  Bet high on a pair of twos, and if everyone at the table believes you’ve got a good hand, they’ll fold, and you’ll win.”

“Sounds risky.”

“It’s gambling,” Melkor said.  “That’s kind of the point.  But back to betting…”He tossed a dollar into the center of the table.  “There’s mine.”

“Now you have to make a judgement,” Thuringwethil said.  “He started the betting.  You can either call, meaning you match his bet; raise, meaning you bet higher; or fold, meaning you give up.”

“I’ll call,” said Mairon.  He threw a dollar on top of Melkor’s.

“Me too,” said Thuringwethil, doing the same.  Gothmog followed suit.

“Now,” said Gothmog, “pick what you want to discard and give ‘em to Thil.”

Mairon looked at his cards.  He slid the two, the three, and the jack toward himself and handed them to Thuringwethil.  She gave him three cards back.  Melkor and Gothmog made their discards and received new cards from Thuringwethil.

“Alright,” said Gothmog.  “Now we bet again.”

“This time’s easier,” Thuringwethil said.  “You bet on what you have, not what you might have.”

“A dollar,” Melkor said, tossing it on the pile.

“Call,” Gothmog said.

“Call,” Thuringwethil said.

“Fold,” Mairon said.

“Chicken,” Melkor said.  Mairon shrugged.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Thuringwethil said.  Mairon laid his cards face-up.  “Smart move,” she said, looking at his hand.  “What about you two?”

Melkor had a pair of jacks.  Gothmog had three sixes.  Thuringwethil had a straight. 

“I like the way this is going,” she said, grinning as she pulled the crumpled dollar bills toward her.

“The night’s young, Thil,” Melkor said, grinning.  “I’m comin’ for ya.”

Mairon proved to be a satisfactory player, if a cautious one.  He was the quickest at the table to fold, earning himself admonishment from Melkor and Gothmog.  Still, he kept his money, and even managed to win a few hands, which Melkor said it was luck, rather than skill.

The night wore on.  They played faster, abandoning caution.  The bets got bigger, and with them, the stakes, until at last there was little room for escalation.

“Last round,” Thuringwethil said.

“Killjoy,” said Melkor.

“My house,” she said.  “My rules.”

“Which is why,” Melkor said, “we hate to play at your house.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gothmog said.  “Thil’s house has the best food.”

“By default,” Melkor said. 

“Because neither of you ever make any,” Thuringwethil said.  “So shut up, you fucking ingrate, and get ready to play your last hand.”

“Fine,” said Melkor, heaving a theatrical sigh.  “Last hand it is.”

“Thuringwethil,” said Mairon, “can I use your bathroom?”

“Top of the stairs,” she said.  “First door on the right.”

“Be right back,” he said, and headed for the stairs.

Melkor watched him until he disappeared from view.  Then he leaned forward, trying with little success to keep his voice down.  “You’d think a genius would be better at poker.”

“Don’t be rude,” Thuringwethil.

“I’m being truthful,” Melkor said.  “Not rude.”

“You can be both,” she said.

“Seriously, though,” Melkor said.  “He’s, like, really bad.”

“Yeah,” Gothmog agreed, “his tells are really obvious.”

“Come on,” Thuringwethil said.

“Thil,” Melkor said.  “You had to have noticed.  He raises his eyebrows when he gets a good hand.”

“He does,” Gothmog said.  “And he touches his hair when his hand’s no good.”

“And when he tries to bluff,” Melkor said.

“He taps his fingers on the table,” Gothmog said.

“Exactly,” Melkor said.

“It’s not that bad,” Thuringwethil said.

“Thil,” Melkor said.  “Come on.”

“Alright,” she said.  “It’s bad.  But do you have to take advantage of him?”

“Don’t think of it as taking advantage,” Melkor said.  “Think of it as a learning experience.”

“And what exactly is he supposed to be learning?”

“How not to suck at poker,” Melkor said.  The three of them heard the stairs creak, and they grew quiet. 

“Sorry about that,” Mairon said, breezing back into the room.  “So, last round, right?”

“Looks like it,” said Melkor.  “Deal the cards, Thil.”

Thuringwethil dealt them each five cards, one by one.  Melkor watched as Mairon picked up his cards, studying them for a moment before running a hand through his hair.  Melkor stifled a grin and turned his attention to his own cards, avoiding Mairon’s gaze as he looked up.

“One hundred big ones,” Melkor said, counting out the bills and tossing them into the center of the table.  “Take that.”

“Call,” Gothmog said. 

“Thil?” said Melkor. 

“Call,” she said, throwing her money on the pile.  “Mairon?”

“Same,” he said, and followed suit.

Melkor discarded two cards and received two more in return.  Gothmog asked for three, and Thuringwethil gave herself the same.  Mairon discarded only one.

“Must be a good hand,” Melkor said.

“It might be,” said Mairon, tapping his fingertips on the table.

Melkor and Gothmog shared a knowing look.  Thuringwethil glared at each of them in turn.  “A hundred bucks,” she said, sliding her money onto the pile.

“Big spender,” Melkor said, rolling his eyes.  “I raise.”  He tossed a hundred and fifty onto the pile.

“Call,” said Gothmog, pushing a hundred and fifty dollars into the center of the table.

“Thil?” said Melkor.  She waffled for a moment, biting her lip and looking at her cards.  “Go big or go home,” he said, needling her.

“I am home,” she said.  “But hey, what the hell.”  She tossed another fifty dollars onto the pile.

“Mairon?” said Melkor.

Mairon tapped his fingers on the tabletop, considering his cards.  “Okay,” he said, his voice wavering as though unsure.  “I raise.”  He slid all the money he had into the center.

“Jesus,” Gothmog said.  “Really?”  Mairon shrugged.

“You sure about that?” Melkor asked.

“Go big or go home,” Mairon said.  “Right?”

“Whatever,” Melkor said.  “It’s your funeral.”

“We’ll see,” said Mairon.

“How much was that?” Melkor asked.

“Three hundred,” Mairon said.

“Call,” Melkor said, and added a hundred and fifty dollars to the pile.  “Gothmog?”

“Call,” he said, and added his money.

“Thuringwethil?” Melkor prompted.  For a moment, Thuringwethil said nothing.  She fixed Mairon with a shrewd, searching gaze, as though trying to see into his mind.  Mairon stared right back, his face unmoving.  “Earth to Thil,” said Melkor.

Thuringwethil shook her head.  “Fold,” she said.

“Chicken,” said Melkor.

“That’s fine,” she said.  “Just don’t ask me for money tomorrow when you’re broke.”

“I won’t have to,” he retorted. 

“We’ll see about that,” she said.  “Alright, boys.  Moment of truth.  Let’s see what you got.”

Gothmog laid his cards face-up on the table.  “A flush,” he said, laying down the four, six, nine, jack, and queen of diamonds.  “Beat that.”

“With pleasure,” Melkor said.  He laid his cards face-up on the table.  He had the two of spades, followed by the four, five, six, seven, and eight of clubs.

Gothmog whistled.  “Straight flush,” he said.  “Bad news for us,” he said, giving Mairon a sympathetic wink.

“Better luck next time,” Melkor said, reaching for the pot.

“Hang on,” said Thuringwethil.  “Let’s see what Mairon has.”

“I have a straight flush,” Melkor said.  “The only way he’s beating me is with a—”He trailed off, mouth hanging open as Mairon laid down his cards.  “No fucking way,” he said, looking at Mairon’s cards.

“Holy shit,” Gothmog said, clearly impressed.  “That’s some damn good luck you got there, kid.”

“But you,” Melkor said, and stopped.  “How did you—but I saw you—”

“You saw me what?” Mairon asked innocently.  “Do this?”  He tapped his fingertips on the tabletop once more.

Both Gothmog and Melkor stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded.  Then Thuringwethil began to laugh, cackling gleefully at the two of them. 

“You played us,” Melkor said, though he didn’t sound particularly upset.

“I did,” said Mairon.  “Though, to be fair, I also got really lucky in that last hand.”

“Well, yeah,” said Melkor, “but you also ran a long fucking con all night.”

“Hell yeah he did,” said Gothmog. 

“You’re a sneaky little shit,” Melkor said, grinning appreciatively.  “You know that?”

Mairon shrugged.  “Whatever it takes to win, right?”  He reached for the money in the center of the table, sliding his winnings to the edge and beginning to sort the bills.

“I like this kid,” said Gothmog.

“Told you,” Melkor said.

“For once,” Thuringwethil said, “I think you were right.  This kid’s going to fit right in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (Unless you're going to yell at me about my lack of poker skills. Pls don't do that.)


	8. Please, Please Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon gets handsy when he drinks. Melkor doesn't really mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell from the summary, there's implied drinking. NSFW.

Please, Please Me

The shrill ringing of his phone woke Melkor from where he had fallen asleep, sprawled on his couch.  Cursing softly under his breath, he dug in his pocket and fumbled the phone to his ear.  “What?” he rasped.

“Were you asleep?”

Mairon cracked one eye open and stared blearily at the clock.  “Mairon,” he said, “it’s two in the goddamn morning.  I swear to God if you say one word to me about work—”

“Can you pick me up?”

Melkor opened both eyes.  “What?”

“Can you pick me up?”

“Pick you up?”

“Please,” he said.  “I’m a little stranded.”

Melkor sighed loudly and pushed him up.  “Text me the address,” he said, and hung up.

***

“Explain to me again,” he said, pulling out his wallet and walking Mairon to the bar, “why I’m here right now.”

“Thil asked me to come.”

“Yeah, I got that part.  She had a date and wanted you to come in case he was weird.”

“But he wasn’t,” Mairon said, “so Thil left.”

“And you stayed because you were already here and you brought your work.”

“Also, they had food.”

“And drinks, apparently.”

“Well,” said Mairon, grinning, “that too.”

“And I have to pay your tab because…”

“Because I left my wallet in my office,” Mairon said.  He had the grace to look sheepish.

Melkor rolled his eyes; nevertheless, he pulled out his wallet and settled the tab.  “Come on, you lush,” he said.  “Let’s go.”  He steered Mairon toward the door and out into the cool midnight air. 

“I’m not drunk,” Mairon said.

“Yeah, okay,” said Melkor, rolling his eyes.

“I’ve got a nice buzz going,” Mairon said blithely.  “But I’m not drunk.”

“Well, bully for you,” said Melkor. 

Mairon threaded his arm through Melkor’s and looked up at him endearingly.  “Thanks for coming to get me,” he said, looking up at Melkor through his eyelashes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Melkor said.  “You owe me, though.  Big time.”

“I can live with that,” Mairon said. 

Melkor pulled his arm away and opened the door of the car.  Mairon turned and put his hands on Melkor’s chest, standing on tiptoe to kiss him before sliding into the passenger seat.  Melkor waited for him to settle, and then closed the door.  He slouched around the back of the car and slid into the driver’s seat.  He had barely closed the door before Mairon was on him, levering himself up and over to straddle Melkor’s waist.

One hand fisted in Melkor’s shirt, and the other buried itself in his hair.  Mairon was kissing him fiercely, hungrily, rocking his hips against Melkor’s.

“Jesus,” Melkor groaned, as Mairon bent his head to kiss along the curve of Melkor’s jaw.  “I forgot how handsy you are when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Mairon murmured, his breath warm against Melkor’s skin.  He licked the shell of Melkor’s ear and took the lobe between his teeth, biting gently.  “I am handsy, though.”  His hands splayed over Melkor’s chest, his fingertips digging gently into Melkor’s skin. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Melkor said, arching into Mairon’s touch.  He let Mairon rock against him, his hands wandering Melkor’s chest.  “Hey,” Melkor said.  Mairon ignored him, pulling at the collar of Melkor’s shirt and sucking a bruise onto the skin over his collarbone.  “Fuck,” Melkor swore.  For a moment, he let Mairon kiss him, savoring the touch.  Then, through sheer, improbable force of will, he took hold of Mairon’s arms and pushed him back, holding him steady a few inches away.

“Jesus,” Melkor said, breathing hard.  “Let’s go.”

“Go?” said Mairon, tilting his head and looking down at Melkor coyly.  “Now?”

“Take it from someone who’s had sex in this car,” Melkor said.  “It’s not comfortable.”

“I don’t care,” Mairon said, stooping once more to kiss Melkor.

Melkor stopped him with an inch to spare.  “Please,” he said.  “Let me take you home, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Mairon considered him for a moment.  “Alright,” he said at last.  He pulled free of Melkor’s grasp and slid into the passenger seat.

“You are a test of my patience,” Melkor said, turning the key in the ignition.

“You don’t have any patience,” Mairon said, buckling his seatbelt as Melkor began to drive.

“I didn’t say it was a hard test.”

Mairon laughed.  “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“You’ve said that,” said Melkor.  “Why’d you call me, anyway?”

“Hmm?” said Mairon, laying a hand on Melkor’s knee.

“You called me.  Why?”

“Who else was I going to call?”  His hand wandered higher.  “Thil’s on a date.  Gothmog—”

“Lives closer than I do,” Melkor pointed out.

“Well, yes,” said Mairon, his hand travelling lazy, ever-ascending spirals.  “But I’d rather owe a favor to you than to Gothmog.”

“Christ, you’re making this hard,” Melkor said, gripping the steering wheel hard with both hands.

“Not the only thing I’m making hard,” said Mairon.  He rubbed his palm roughly over the bulge of Melkor’s cock. 

Melkor swore loudly, jerking the steering wheel to the left before hastily correcting.  “Fuck,” Mairon,” he said.  “Do you have a death wish?”

“I have a wish, alright,” said Mairon.  “it’s not death, though.”

“Mairon, if you want to make it out of this car alive, then keep your hands to yourself.”

“Fine,” said Mairon, heaving a theatrical sigh and settling himself back in the passenger seat.  “When I make it out of this car, though,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

“Mairon,” said Melkor, his voice half-warning, half-goading.

Mairon leaned over, his lips close to Melkor’s ear, and told him.

It was a fifteen minute drive to Melkor’s building.  They made it in eight.  Even so, Melkor would’ve sworn it was an eternity before he finally pulled into his spot and killed the engine.  He turned to Mairon, an admonishment already half-formed on his tongue, but Mairon was quicker.  He seated himself astride Melkor’s hips once more, all restraint now abandoned.  His hands ran eagerly down Melkor’s chest, pressing a biting, eager kiss to Melkor’s lips.  He turned his head, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of Melkor’s jaw.  “I want you,” he breathed, grinding his hips down against Melkor’s.

Melkor’s hands slid down Mairon’s back, cupping the curve of his ass.  “Get out of this goddamn car,” he growled.

With more grace than Melkor would’ve believed possible, given his position and mild level of intoxication, Mairon opened the door and stepped out onto the concrete just in front of the open door.  Melkor followed him, planting his feet close enough to Mairon that Mairon was forced to step back.  Melkor took advantage of Mairon’s momentary imbalance to seize him around the waist and hoist him over his shoulder.  With Mairon thus ignominiously in tow, Melkor headed for the elevator.  Mairon protested loudly, though the force of his protest was undermined by his laughter as he let himself be carried out of the garage.

“You wait,” said Melkor, punching the up button by the elevator door.  “You just wait, you tease.”

“I’ve been waiting,” Mairon said, yawning theatrically.

The elevator arrived, and the doors slid open.  Melkor set Mairon on his feet and pushed him inside, following close behind.  Melkor pushed the topmost button in the array, and the doors clicked shut.  Melkor turned as the elevator began to move and pulled Mairon to him, kissing him hard as the elevator rose toward his floor.

The doors opened, and Melkor turned abruptly away, pulling Mairon after him by the wrist. 

“This hallway has never been longer,” Mairon whined, letting himself be pulled along.

“And you’ve never been more ridiculous,” Melkor said.  They reached the door to Melkor’s apartment.  Melkor dug in his pocket for his keys.  Mairon draped himself over Melkor’s back, one hand snaking up under his shirt and the other sliding low, dipping below the waistline of Melkor’s pants. Melkor fumbled with his keys, muttering a steady stream of curses under his breath until at last he managed to fit the key into the lock and pushed open the door.

Mairon followed Melkor inside, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet as he waited for Melkor to shut the door.  “Finally,” he said as Melkor turned.  He stepped closer, bouncing up once more to kiss him.  Melkor caught Mairon’s wrists and held him, barely an inch away.  “Uh-uh,” he murmured, his lips teasingly close to Mairon’s.  “You’ve been fucking with me all night.  It’s my turn.” 

He pushed Mairon back against the wall, pinning his wrists above his head and kissing him.  Mairon squirmed beneath him, and for a moment, Melkor hesitated.  Then Mairon moaned, the sound humming through his lips and into Melkor’s.  He arched into the pressure of Melkor’s hands and moaned again.  Melkor pulled back and looked at him curiously.  “You like that,” he said.  “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Mairon murmured.  “God, yes.”

Melkor kissed him again, just once, and lightly, leaving Mairon to squirm forward longingly.  Melkor shifted his grip and released one of Mairon’s hands.  He used his grip on the other to spin Mairon and press him against the wall.  Mairon’s free hand was pinned between the wall and himself, and Melkor held the other behind him.  Melkor leaned into him, kissing his neck.  With his free hand, he undid the closure of Mairon’s pants and took him in hand, stroking him roughly. 

Mairon thrust himself into Melkor’s hand, gasping and crying out.  Melkor released him abruptly, and Mairon leaned into the wall, panting.  Then he turned and looked up at Melkor, his cheeks flushed, his hair disheveled.  “Did I hurt you?” Melkor asked, brushing his knuckles across Mairon’s cheek.

Mairon turned his head and kissed Melkor’s palm.  “You would never hurt me,” he said. 

Melkor kissed him then, and Mairon threw his arms around Melkor’s neck, kissing him back hungrily.  Melkor stepped forward, steering Mairon back toward the couch.  Mairon’s legs hit the arm of the couch and he sat down, hard.  Melkor leaned over him, and Mairon pulled him down, kissing him.  “Take off your clothes,” Melkor growled in his ear.

Mairon pulled at the knot of his tie, sliding it from his neck and letting it fall to the floor.  Then he started on the buttons of his shirt.  Melkor kissed him lightly as the first button came free, a light touch on the lips.  He turned to Mairon’s jaw as the second button came free, kissing along its curve as Mairon undid the buttons, one by one.  He shrugged out of his shirt, and Melkor pushed him back against the cushions, kissing down his neck.  He set his teeth to the hollow of Mairon’s throat and sucked a bruise into the tender skin between his collarbones.  He wandered lower, his fingers tracing gently down Mairon’s throat.

He lowered his head and traced a lazy circle around Mairon’s nipple with his tongue.  At the same time, his hand slipped into Mairon’s pants and stroked the length of his erection.  Mairon shifted into the touch.  Melkor worked his way lower, placing kiss after lazy kiss down Mairon’s belly to his navel, savoring the touch of Mairon’s skin against his lips.  With each kiss, he stroked Mairon’s cock, running his thumb through the mess of precum at the tip.

“Please,” Mairon whispered.

“Hmm?” Melkor hummed innocently.

“You’re torturing me.”

“You’re dramatic,” Melkor said, licking up the underside of Mairon’s cock.

Mairon gasped, his fingertips digging into the couch cushion.  “And you call me a tease.”

“You are,” said Melkor, pressing a kiss to the tip of Mairon’s cock.

Mairon whined and thrust upward, but he met only air, and he whimpered.  “You’re worse,” he said.

“How’s that?” asked Melkor, running his tongue around the tip.

“Because you won’t—oh, God!—touch me.”

“Not true,” said Melkor, his tongue sliding across Mairon’s slit, tasting him.

“Please,” Mairon begged, a whine in his voice.  He squirmed against the couch cushion and bit his lip.  “Please, oh God, please.”

“Well,” said Melkor, grinning triumphantly, “since you asked so nicely…”  He lowered his head at last and took Mairon into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and taking him down to the base of his shaft.  Mairon shuddered and moaned, his hips rolling forward into the touch.  He slid one hand through Melkor’s hair, resting his hand at the back of Melkor’s head and gently setting him to rhythm. 

Melkor caressed the point of Mairon’s hip and ran his hand around Mairon’s back, feeling the curve of his ass.   He slid his hand back further and pressed a finger half inside Mairon.  Mairon swore and thrust up into Melkor’s mouth.  Melkor pulled his head back and looked up at Mairon.  “And you’re supposed to be the patient one,” he said, grinning.

“Not now,” he gasped.  “Not with you.”  He smiled then, his eyes hazy with lust.  “And you love it.”

“You’re right,” Melkor said.  He eased another finger into Mairon and thrust gently, kissing the soft skin of Mairon’s thigh.  “All your patience, all your discipline, and I can destroy you with two fingers.”

“Hardly,” said Mairon, the scoffing tone he intended marred by a whimper.

“No?” said Melkor, tilting his head and looking up at him.

“No,” Mairon meant to say.  All that came out was a muffled groan as Melkor crooked a finger inside him.

“Want to rethink that one?”

A retort came fast to Mairon’s tongue, only to be lost once more in the dizzying stroke of Melkor’s fingers inside him.

“Please,” Mairon managed at last.  “Melkor, please.”  His voice was hoarse, and raw.  His knees fell gently apart, his back arching up into the thrust of Melkor’s hand.

Melkor pulled himself up and draped himself over Mairon, kissing him gently.  All teasing, all thought of denial had gone, lost in the need in Mairon’s voice.  “Turn around,” he said, nuzzling his cheek against Mairon’s.  “Get on your knees.”

Mairon pushed himself up, pressing himself to Melkor and kissing him.  He stroked for a moment over Melkor’s erection, hard and rough.  Then he slid back and turned his back to Melkor.  Melkor took himself in hand and laid his other hand on Mairon’s hip.  He pressed the tip of his cock to Mairon’s ass and slowly pressed forward.  Mairon gasped, and Melkor stilled.  “Don’t stop,” Mairon groaned.

“Mairon—oh, fuck.”  Mairon rocked back against him, pushing Melkor deeper inside.  “Fuck, Mai.  Easy.”

“I don’t want easy,” Mairon said, his voice ragged.  “I want you.”  He rocked his hips back again, making Melkor moan.  “Please,” Mairon whispered. 

Melkor’s capacity for restraint had never been particularly deep, and what little restraint he had was being shredded by Mairon’s wrecked, needful pleading.  He rolled his hips forward, gently thrusting into Mairon.  Mairon gasped and pushed back against him, pushing Melkor deeper inside him, hard.  Melkor could take no more.  He took hold of Mairon’s hips, holding him still and thrusting deep up inside him in steady, powerful strokes.

Mairon whimpered, a steady stream of pleading and encouragement falling from his lips as Melkor fucked him in earnest. 

“Melkor,” he groaned, “please.  Harder, oh God, please.  Fuck, I’m so close.”

Melkor slid one hand up Mairon’s chest and pulled him upright, flush against his chest.  With his other hand, he took hold of Mairon’s cock and stroked his palm hard from base to tip, keeping time with the thrust of his hips.  “Fuck,” he said, his voice close in Mairon’s ear.  “Fuck, I love the way you feel.”  He was close, and he knew Mairon was too.  The cadence of Mairon’s breath had changed, falling in hot, shallow gasps from his lips.

Melkor shifted the hand holding Mairon’s chest, brushing the hair away from his neck.  He kissed him gently—once, then twice.  Then he wound his fingers into Mairon’s hair and pulled, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for Mairon to really feel it.  Mairon cried out, his muscles involuntarily contracting around Melkor’s length, buried deep inside him.  Melkor grunted and came, shouting Mairon’s name and stroking his cock—once, twice, three times—until Mairon came too, spilling himself into Melkor’s hand.

They were still for a moment, each loathe to move.  Then Mairon shifted forward, whimpering as Melkor slid free of him.  “Come here,” Melkor murmured pulling him back.  He sat back against the arm of the couch, and Mairon settled between his legs, his back to Melkor’s chest.  Melkor kissed the top of his head and wrapped his arms around him.  “You should drink more often,” he said.

“Operant conditioning,” said Mairon.  “I like it.”  He leaned back, looking up at Melkor and grinning.

Melkor leaned down and kissed him.  “Plus,” he said, “you still owe me for coming to get you.”

Mairon laughed and pressed a kiss to Melkor’s neck.  “I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured, snuggling back against Melkor.  He closed his eyes and was soon asleep, his breathing deep and regular. 

Melkor kissed him gently and rested his cheek on the crown of Mairon’s head.  “This,” he whispered, as his own eyes drifted shut.  “This’ll do just fine.”

 


	9. Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are three ways I could subtitle this disaster:  
> 1\. Mairon is an indiscriminately handsy drunk  
> 2\. Gothmog might not be as straight as he thinks he is  
> 3\. If you have a threeway with your boyfriend and your best friend, and neither of them remember it, did it really happen at all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The FYD breakup arc's been hard on everyone, me included. Placed nonspecifically in the FYD timeline.
> 
> This might be the most nsfw thing I've ever written. So, there's that. Tagged for, you know, whatever you imagine happens when three good buddies decide to do it.

“Pass me the bottle, will you?”

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mairon said, reaching over Gothmog to pick up a bottle of wine.  There was only a mouthful left, but Mairon tipped his head back, letting the last of it drain into his mouth.  It spilled over his bottom lip, running down his chin.  He set the bottle back down with the others, four empty bottles lying in testament to the long, annoying day they’d had.

“God,” said Melkor, laughing.  “You’re such a lush.”

Mairon made to wipe his face on his sleeve, but Melkor was quicker, catching Mairon’s chin and holding him still.  He licked the little spill of wine, savoring the sugar on his tongue before pressing his lips to Mairon’s and kissing him.  Mairon laughed and pushed himself up, rolling onto Melkor’s lap, his knees on either side of Melkor’s hips.  He kissed him hard, hungry and demanding, and Melkor pulled him down, taking as much as he could get. 

“Oh, come on,” Gothmog complained, shifting away from them. 

“Jealous,” Melkor said, gasping as Mairon bent his head and sucked a bruise onto his neck.

“Yeah,” said Gothmog, rolling his eyes.  “Like I—“

Whatever Gothmog meant to say was lost in the press of Mairon’s lips against his, stifling all but a gasp of surprise.  Melkor whistled softly, biting his lip and watching Mairon with obvious interest.  Mairon leaned back, bracing his hand on Gothmog’s shoulder and grinning at him.  “You know,” said Gothmog carefully, “I’m not really into dudes.”  Still, his hands wandered down to the small of Mairon’s back.

“You want me to stop?” Mairon asked, running his thumb along Gothmog’s bottom lip.

Gothmog pulled Mairon into his lap and kissed him.  Melkor laughed, watching for a moment.  “Come here, you lush,” he said, tugging at Mairon’s shirt until he laughed and let himself be pulled back against Melkor’s chest.  He slid his hand to the back of Melkor’s neck and pulled him down, kissing him. 

“Jesus,” said Gothmog, breathing hard.  He looked a little dazed.

“I know,” Melkor said, tilting his head so Mairon could nip along his jaw.

“No wonder you two can’t keep your hands off each other.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Melkor said, sliding his fingers into Mairon’s hair and pulling him into a kiss.  

“Oh, come on,” Gothmog said, a whine in his voice that wasn’t there before. 

Mairon laughed.  “Easy, Gothmog,” he said, reaching over to palm at the bulge in Gothmog’s pants.  “There’s enough of me to go around.”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure that’s true,” Melkor said, circling his arm around Mairon’s waist. 

Mairon kissed him hard, his tongue quick and clever in Melkor’s mouth.  His hand wandered down between Melkor’s legs, palming at his length.  He nuzzled along Melkor’s cheek, put his lips to Melkor’s ear, and whispered, “Only one way to find out.”

He slid down off the couch and knelt at Melkor’s feet, tugging at the waistband of Melkor’s pants.  Melkor raised his hips to help, and Mairon pulled him free.  He rocked forward, hands stroking roughly up Melkor’s thighs, and took him into his mouth.  “Fuck,” Melkor swore, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back.  He grabbed a fistful of Mairon’s hair and guided him roughly into a faster rhythm.

“Okay,” Gothmog said, “this is officially wei—hnnnggg.”  Mairon groped up the length of Gothmog’s thigh, palmed him roughly, and then slid his hand down Gothmog’s pants.  “Oh, God,” Gothmog breathed, hand gripping hard into the arm of the couch. 

“Oh, fuck,” Melkor said, groaning as he held Mairon’s head down and rolled his hips up, pressing deeper into Mairon’s mouth.  Through a haze of tentative pleasure, Gothmog wondered vaguely if Melkor wasn’t being a little rough, but Mairon moaned, an unmistakable sound of pleasure, and he stroked Gothmog hard and fast.  Melkor released him, and Mairon darted up onto the couch far more nimbly than he ought to have been able to, given how much he’d had to drink.  Mairon kissed him until Melkor was panting, hands sliding down the curve of Mairon’s ass and fumbling at the closure of his pants. 

For a brief moment, Gothmog wondered if he ought to be as aroused by this as he felt, but Mairon was stroking him, hand sliding roughly along the length of him, thumb dragging through the fluid at the tip, and Gothmog no longer had the wherewithal to care.  Then Mairon turned, kneeling in the space between Melkor and Gothmog, and he lowered his head, taking Gothmog down to the very base. 

Gothmog let out a nonsensical string of curse words and Melkor laughed.  Mairon ran his tongue up the length of Gothmog’s cock and sat back, looking up at him.  “What was that,” he asked, cocking his head to the side, “about not being into dudes?”  Mairon grinned, and Gothmog felt his heart racing.  There was a gentle flush in Mairon’s cheeks, and he blinked in a feigned innocence that Gothmog might have found funny, in another time and place.  Now, he couldn’t help thinking that he’d never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Mairon in that moment.

“Shut up,” he said, feeling his cock twitch expectantly.  Mairon laughed and bent his head, circling his tongue along the head of Gothmog’s cock.  Gothmog swore and slid his hand to the back of Mairon’s head, shuddering.  Gently, as though still unsure, he pressed Mairon’s head down, groaning as Mairon took him down.

“God,” Melkor said, not quite complaining.  “You have no right to look this good with someone else’s dick in your mouth.” 

Mairon snorted and pulled back for a moment.  “Don’t make me laugh,” he said.

“Don’t make him stop,” Gothmog groaned.

Mairon did laugh, then, and let Gothmog push him back down.  “No right,” Melkor murmured, and sat forward.  He reached for Mairon, taking him in hand and stroking roughly.  He set a hard rhythm, pulling at Mairon’s pants until they slid down to his knees.  Then he ran his free hand over the curve of Mairon’s ass, gently squeezing before trailing his fingertips to circle the tight ring of muscle below.

Mairon gasped as he was breached, his fingernails digging into Gothmog’s legs.  Gothmog could feel him shaking, the hand that still held his cock falling still.  Then he rocked back, impaling himself further onto Melkor’s fingers, and he stroked languidly up Gothmog’s cock with his tongue.  Melkor thrust his fingers in time with the stroke of his hand on Mairon’s cock, and Mairon matched the rhythm with his tongue until Gothmog was panting, his fingernails digging into the arm of the couch.  “Oh, fuck,” Gothmog said, trying and failing to keep himself from thrusting up into Mairon’s mouth.  “Oh, God.”

“Find yourself some stamina, Gothmog,” said Melkor.  “We’re just getting started.”  He thrust his fingers hard inside Mairon, fingertips sliding roughly against his prostate; at the same time, he delivered a ringing smack to Mairon’s ass.  Mairon lurched forward so hard and so fast that Gothmog felt the tip of his cock hit the back of Mairon’s throat.  Gothmog shuddered, taken by surprise, and opened his mouth to ask if Mairon was alright.  Before he could speak, Mairon moaned, deep and wanton and needy, the sound humming through Gothmog until he could hardly stand it.  He thrust his hips up, and Mairon took him easily, eagerly. 

Mairon pulled back suddenly, Gothmog’s cock sliding free of his mouth.  “Get up,” he said, his words no less commanding for the rasping of his voice.  Gothmog didn’t argue.  He let Mairon push him back, and he knelt at the far end of the couch, half-sitting on the arm of it.  Mairon knelt in front of him, and he looked back over his shoulder at Melkor.  “Well?” he said expectantly.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Mairon laughed.  “I can’t believe you have to ask.”

“I mean, you are the, uh, most _involved_ party here,” said Melkor.  “I just—“ Mairon turned, taking Melkor’s hand and sliding it between his own legs. 

“Does that answer your question?”

Melkor stroked up the length of Mairon’s erection, and Mairon gasped, his eyes falling closed, his mouth open.  Melkor leaned forward, kissing Mairon hard.  Then he turned his head to the side, his lips brushing Mairon’s ear as he whispered, “Turn around.”

“You two done?” said Gothmog, rolling his eyes. 

“So impatient,” Mairon said, biting his lip as Melkor ran one hand up his chest and the other down between his legs. 

“Cut him some slack,” said Melkor, as Mairon leaned back into him, gasping.  “Waiting to fuck you is an impatient place to be.”

“So don’t wait,” said Mairon.  He could feel Melkor’s erection pressing against him, and he rocked back against it, making Melkor gasp, his hips stuttering forward.

“Keep doing that, and I won’t be able to.”

“For fuck’s sake,” said Gothmog.

Mairon kissed Melkor once more, quick and on the lips.  The he leaned forward, spreading his knees into a wide stance.  He stretched himself toward Gothmog and took him in hand, stroking him lazily before taking him into his mouth.  Melkor knelt behind Mairon, stroking himself to hardness.  Mairon could feel the press of Melkor’s cock against him, and he braced his hand on the arm of the couch, squirming in anticipation.  Melkor pressed in slow and brutal, one hand on Mairon’s hip to hold him still.  Then he started to move, languid thrusts becoming harder, faster, each one driving Mairon forward, and Gothmog further into him. 

Gothmog was swearing steadily, a half-whispered litany of profanity drawn out of him by Mairon’s tongue.  Melkor leaned forward and took Mairon in hand, stroking him in time to the thrust of his hips.  Mairon whimpered and moaned, the sound muffled but no less clear to Melkor, who knew the pitch and the pace of it by heart.  Mairon was close, and it drove Melkor closer to the edge.  He took hold of Mairon’s hips, holding him still with both hands, pulling back as far as he could before thrusting back in deep, angling his hips, aiming for—

Mairon shuddered, his fingers scrabbling against the arm of the couch.  Melkor thrust into him once, twice, three times, hitting that spot until Mairon screamed, lurching forward, out of control, spilling himself into Melkor’s hand.  His throat convulsed around Gothmog, who very quickly followed, coming hot and fast down Mairon’s throat.  Melkor was last, not far behind, thrusting once more before falling still, flush against Mairon.  It was over, nearly as quickly as it had begun.

Gothmog sat back on the arm of the chair, looking dazed.  Melkor pulled out of Mairon, sitting back on his heels.  Mairon whined softly as Melkor pulled free of him, and then he raised himself up on his knees, stretching his arms over his head.  “Well,” he said, grinning at both of them.  “That’s one way to spend a Friday night.”

Melkor laughed and threw an arm around Mairon’s chest, pulling him back.  “Come here, you instigator,” he said, burying his face in the crook of Mairon’s shoulder. 

“I may have instigated,” Mairon said, “but I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Fuck no,” Melkor said.  “Are you insane?” Mairon kissed him, and he laughed. 

“God, you two are gross,” Gothmog said.

“If you want to cuddle,” said Melkor, stretching out a hand toward him, “all you have to do is ask.”

“Fuck you,” said Gothmog mildly, standing up and stretching.  He looked around the room, yawning.  “I have to pee,” he said, and trudged away down the hall.

Mairon wiggled out of Melkor’s grip and stretched himself out on the couch.  Melkor laid down beside him, sliding his arm under Mairon’s shoulders. 

“Fuck me,” Melkor said, yawning. 

“Maybe later,” said Mairon.  He nestled himself up against Melkor, laying his head on Melkor’s chest. 

“God, I want to say yes,” Melkor said.  “But I doubt it.”

“Mmm,” said Mairon, already half-asleep. 

Melkor kissed his forehead, squeezing him gently.  “God, I love you,” he whispered, watching the steady rise and fall of Mairon’s chest.  He shifted up, resting his cheek against the top of Mairon’s head.  Within the space of a breath, he too was asleep.

Gothmog wandered out of the bathroom and back into the living room, stopping at the arm of the couch.  He looked down at them and smiled, shaking his head.  “Assholes,” he said fondly.  Then he turned and made his way back down the hall, heading for the closest bedroom.

*****

Melkor woke up alone of the couch.  It was morning—late morning, judging by the sun coming in through the curtains.  He stretched and yawned, feeling a headache brewing behind his eyes.  It was quiet, though he could hear muffled voices coming from the kitchen.

He sat up, his foot hitting an empty wine bottle.  He started, remembering all at once what had happened the night before.  “Holy shit,” he said softly, grinning.  He stood up and wandered into the kitchen, yawning.  “Hey guys,” he said, grin widening. 

Mairon glanced up from the newspaper only briefly.  Gothmog took a drink from his coffee.  “You’re too chipper,” he said grudgingly, wrapping both hands around the warm cup and narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Can’t help it,” Melkor said, still grinning like an idiot.  “After last night.”

“What about it?” Mairon said, picking up a pen and filling an answer into the crossword. 

“Are you serious?”

“Dude, if you’re all jazzed about getting wine drunk and passing out,” said Gothmog, “you’ve been working too hard, and you need a fucking vacation.”

“There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear,” said Mairon.  “Not said to him, anyway.”

Melkor looked between the two of them incredulously.  “Are—“He stopped, trying to find the words to express his disbelief.  “Really?” was all he managed.

“What’s his problem?” Gothmog asked Mairon, nodding at Melkor.

Mairon shrugged, still writing.

Melkor looked at them both, dumbfounded.  “Mai,” he said, splaying his hands on the table and looking down at him.  “Are you serious?  You don’t remember last night?”

“My memory shuts down after the third bottle,” Mairon said.  “Although,” he said, looking up at last, “I did wake up warm and being half-crushed to death—which, as you know, is my favorite way to wake up.”  He grinned and kissed his palm, pressing it to Melkor’s chest.

“Mairon,” said Melkor, almost desperate, wondering if this was an elaborate joke.  “You don’t—but we—“

“Did we have sex?” Mairon asked.  “We did, didn’t we?”  He patted Melkor’s hand soothingly.  “Sorry, babe.  I’m sure it was great.”

“How can you not remember?”

“I drank a lot,” Mairon said, shrugging.  He managed to sound apologetic.

“So did I,” said Gothmog.  “Thank God.”

Melkor turned to Gothmog, his mouth falling open in disbelief.  “But I,” he started, gaping at Gothmog.  “You—“

Gothmog waved a hand at him.  “Spare me the details,” he said.

Mairon yawned, and he winced, rubbing at his jaw.  “Jesus,” he said.  “Must’ve been a hell of a blow job, if my jaw’s anything to go by.”

“Oh, gross,” Gothmog said.  “Thank God for the defensive mechanism of blacking out.”

Melkor looked back and forth between the two of them, his mouth working soundlessly.  He made a strangled, desperate noise, and then he turned and stalked out of the room, muttering something about needing to go lie down.

Gothmog leaned his head out the doorway and watched Melkor disappear down the hall.  “What’s his problem?”

“No idea,” Mairon said.  He set the completed crossword aside and stretched.  “You remember anything from last night?”

“Not after we started the fourth bottle.”

“Me either,” Mairon said.  He shrugged.  “Oh, well.  Must not have been that memorable.”

“Don’t let Melkor hear you,” said Gothmog, grinning. 

“He’ll get over it,” Mairon said.  “Anyway, if it was that good, I think I’d remember it.”

Gothmog laughed.  “That’s probably true,” he said.  “Come on.  Let’s go eat.  I’m starving.”

 

 

 

 


	10. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, hell no,” Melkor said, pushing his way through the crowd at a run.
> 
> “Not even two minutes,” Gothmog said, following close behind, “and we’re already going to make a scene.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, I've been calling this one 'dude who won't quit hitting on Mairon is gonna learn a Lesson'
> 
> Could be alternately subtitled, 'talk shit, get hit'
> 
> Bet you can't guess who's throwing the first punch.
> 
> (this dude's harassing Mairon at the club. it's not like, super uncomfortable or anything, but if you don't like the idea of some mild sexual harassment, maybe don't read. only mentioning because I have no idea how to tag it, as usual)

Mairon and Thuringwethil walked up to the bar, leaning against the grimy wood as they waited to be served.  “How cute do I look?” Thil asked, fussing gently with her hair.

Mairon looked her over.  “Pretty cute,” he said.

“Cute enough to get free drinks from this douchebag?” she asked, nodding at the bartender.

Mairon looked at the bartender, who was young and self-assured, flirting with a woman at the other end of the bar.  Then he looked at Thuringwethil, her dress clinging but tasteful, her makeup flawless, her black hair loose around her shoulders.  “Yes,” he said decisively.  “And if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a drink.”

She laughed, and Mairon felt someone come up beside him, leaning on the bar.  Mairon turned and looked at the arm pressed against his on the sticky surface of the bar, and he looked up into the face of someone he didn’t know.  He was a young-ish man, perhaps Mairon’s age, with short, side-swept blonde hair and dark eyes.  He wore a polo shirt with a popped collar and jeans that were three sizes too tight, artfully ripped in a way that screamed ‘exorbitantly expensive’.  He looked ridiculous, and Mairon fought the urge to laugh. 

“Hey,” said the stranger, grinning at him.  His teeth were eerily straight, and far too white.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

Mairon half-wondered if he could see his reflection in the man’s obnoxious grin.  Then he realized he was being rude, and he smiled.  “Thanks,” he said, as politely as he could manage, “but I’m good.”

“Come on,” the man wheedled, his grin widening.  “A cute guy like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.”

“Don’t worry,” said Thuringwethil, draping her arm over Mairon’s shoulders.  “He’s not.”

The man’s nose wrinkled slightly, and he glanced only briefly at her.  “This your girlfriend?” he asked, looking back at Mairon.

Mairon laughed.  “God, no,” he said.

“Hey,” said Thuringwethil, feigning affront.

“No offense,” he added.

“Here you go, miss,” said the bartender, sliding two tall glasses across the bar.  “On the house.”

She gave the bartender a winning smile and picked up the glasses.  “Come on,” she said, kissing Mairon on the cheek.  “Let’s go.”

Mairon took his glass from her.  “Thanks anyway,” he said, smiling at the stranger.  “Have a nice night.” 

Mairon and Thuringwethil walked out to the dancefloor, threading their way through the crowd.  “Don’t go too far,” Mairon said.  “Gothmog and Melkor haven’t come in yet.”

“They’ll find us,” she said, sounding utterly unconcerned.  “Here, hold this.”  She handed him her drink.  “I have to pee,” she said, and wandered off toward the back of the club.

Mairon stood alone in a sea of people, looking idly toward the door to see if he could find Melkor or Gothmog.

“So,” said a now-familiar voice from behind him.  “She’s not your girlfriend, huh?” 

Mairon turned to find the stranger from the bar standing there, the grin on his face now slightly unsettling.

“No,” Mairon said. 

“Not your type?”

“You could say that,” said Mairon.  The man was beginning to make him nervous; he kept edging closer to Mairon, following Mairon’s surreptitious steps back.

“What is your type?” 

Mairon blinked at him, nonplussed.  “Um,” he said, momentarily thrown by the strange forwardness of the question. 

“Let me help you out,” he said, interrupting Mairon’s baffled train of thought.  “How about ‘nice guy who wants to buy your drinks all night’?”

It was, as far as pickup lines went, incredibly tacky, and not a little bit absurd.  Mairon laughed; he couldn’t help himself.  The stranger, misinterpreting the source of Mairon’s amusement, grinned, and sidled closer.  “You’re cute when you laugh,” he said, reaching out to touch Mairon’s hair.

Mairon stepped back.  “Look, dude,” Mairon said.  “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea here.  I’m not interested.  Like, at all.”

“Ouch,” he said.

“Sorry,” Mairon said, though he didn’t feel particularly sympathetic.  “But you’re really not my type.  And anyway, I have a boyfriend, so—“

He laughed; it was a biting, derisive sound, and Mairon bristled.  “Good one,” he said.

Mairon frowned, annoyed.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave an exaggerated look to the left and to the right.  “Funny,” he said, “but I don’t see any boyfriend.”

“Still working on that object permanence, huh?”  The stranger looked confused, and Mairon rolled his eyes.  “Newsflash,” Mairon said, “but just because he isn’t here doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.”

“You want to know what I think?”

“No,” Mairon said.

“I think,” said the stranger, ignoring him, “that you’re just trying to get rid of me.”

“I am,” Mairon said, “but for the record, I do have a boyfriend.”

“This guy again?” Thuringwethil asked, coming back at last.  “Come on, Mai,” she said, pulling him away.  “Let’s dance.”

“Thank God,” Mairon said, following her.  “He was starting to creep me out.”

Across the dance floor, at the front of the building, Melkor and Gothmog made their way into the club.  “See them?” Gothmog asked, looking around through the throngs of people.

“Looking,” Melkor said.  “There,” he said, pointing.  “Thank God for red hair.”

“It does stick out,” Gothmog said. 

Melkor stared at Mairon, giving a low whistle of approval.  “Damn, he’s fine,” he said. 

“Apparently that dude thinks so too,” said Gothmog, nodding at the stranger who had followed Mairon across the dancefloor.

The stranger had inserted himself between Thuringwethil and Mairon, crowding into their space.  “You like to dance?” he asked.

“With people I like,” Mairon said, pointedly moving away from him.

“Give me a chance,” he said.  “You might like me.”

“I don’t,” Mairon said, moving again. 

“You’re hot,” he said, looking him up and down.

“I know,” said Mairon, unable to help himself. 

He laughed.  “You look good out here,” he said, still eyeing him appreciatively. 

“Look, no offense,” Mairon said, “but you’re creeping me out.”

“Aw, come on,” he said, reaching out to cup Mairon’s cheek.

“Look at that asshole,” Melkor said from across the room, his hands balling into fists. 

“Easy, killer,” said Gothmog, laying a hand on his shoulder.  “Mai can take care of himself.”  They watched Mairon push the man away, glaring at him.  “See?” Gothmog said.  “He’s fine.  Let’s get a drink.”

“Hang on,” said Melkor, still watching the exchange.

“Don’t touch me,” Mairon said, scowling at the stranger.

He laughed.  “I like ‘em feisty,” he said.  “Must be the red hair.”  He reached out and touched Mairon’s hair again, and Mairon backed away. 

“I said, don’t touch me.”

“Dude, he’s not interested,” Thuringwethil said.

“Who asked you, bitch?”

She slapped him, and he pushed her hard enough to make her stagger backward, tottering on her stilettos. 

“Thil!” Mairon said, turning toward her.

“Oh, hell no,” Melkor said, pushing his way through the crowd at a run.

“Not even two minutes,” Gothmog said, following close behind, “and we’re already going to make a scene.”

Mairon reached for Thuringwethil, but the stranger seized him around the wrist, pulling him back against his chest.  His grip was so tight as to be painful, and he snaked his other arm around Mairon, groping over his back and his ass.  Mairon tried to push him away but found himself at an awkward angle, his free hand pinned to his side.  The stranger reached down and kissed him, chasing Mairon’s lips as Mairon turned forcefully away. 

It only lasted a moment before the stranger withdrew, pulling back forcefully enough to yank Mairon forward.  Mairon stumbled a few steps before the man’s grip on his wrist broke.  Mairon watched him sprawl gracelessly on the floor, flat on his back.  He looked up and saw Melkor coming toward him, passing the stranger on the floor without so much as a backward glance.

“Hey,” Melkor said, taking Mairon by the shoulders.  “You okay?”

Mairon made a noise of disgust and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Yeah,” he said, looking up at Melkor.  “I’m fine.”

“Thil?” Melkor asked, glancing over Mairon’s shoulder at her. 

Gothmog had reached her, and she leaned on him, taking off her shoe.  “That asshole broke my heel,” she said, looking at it with a mixture of fury and disbelief.

“Who you calling an asshole?” the stranger demanded, picking himself up off the floor.

“You,” Gothmog said, glaring at him.  “The dickhead harassing people at the club.”

“Who’s harassing?”

“You are, asshole,” Melkor said.

“I’m sorry,” said the stranger, scowling at him, “but what the fuck is it to you?”

“I don’t like douchebags like you harassing people who clearly aren’t interested,” Melkor said.  “And I especially don’t like it when the guy you’re harassing is my boyfriend.”  He put his arm around Mairon’s shoulders.

The stranger looked incredulously between Melkor and Mairon.  “This is your boyfriend?” he said, as though he couldn’t believe it.  “Really?  This guy?”

Mairon looked up at Melkor, who leaned down to kiss him.  Mairon looked back at the stranger, who wore a look halfway between disbelief and disgust.  Mairon grinned at him, leaning into Melkor.  “I did say you weren’t my type,” he said, his tone entirely unsympathetic.

“Your type,” the stranger scoffed.  “Which is, what? Gutter punk trash?”

Mairon’s fist caught him on the bridge of the nose with enough force to smash it sideways, displacing it wildly out of joint.  His hands flew to his face, blood rushing between his fingers and dripping on the floor.

“You broke my fuckin’ nose!” he said, words muffled by his hands and the angle of his nose.

“No one calls my boyfriend dirty gutter punk trash but me,” said Mairon coolly, as Thuringwethil and Gothmog howled with laughter. 

The stranger lunged forward, but Melkor intercepted him before he could move more than an inch.  He grabbed the man by the back of the neck and pressed the heel of his other hand to the man’s ruined nose, holding him still as he whimpered and scrabbled uselessly at Melkor’s hands.  “Leave,” Melkor said, the threat clear in his voice, “or I will kill you and make it look like an accident.”  For a moment, it looked as though the man was considering argument, but Melkor increased the pressure on his face, and he yelped.  “Try me, asshole,” Melkor said. 

“Okay,” he said, pushing against Melkor’s hands.  “Okay!”

Melkor kept the pressure for a few seconds longer and then shoved him back.  “Get the fuck out,” he said. 

Embarrassed and angry, the man skulked away through the crowd.  Gothmog watched him go, keeping a careful eye on his progress.  Melkor ignored him, turning to face Mairon again.  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked.  He laid one hand on Mairon’s shoulder and smoothed an errant strand of hair away from Mairon’s face with the other.

Mairon laid a hand against Melkor’s chest and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.  “I am now,” he said.  Melkor brushed his knuckles over Mairon’s cheek, and Mairon kissed him again. 

“Gross,” Gothmog said good-naturedly.  “Get a room.”

“How about the next best thing?” Mairon said, grinning slyly at Melkor.

“Booth in the corner?” Melkor said.

“Or whichever one we come to first,” Mairon said.  He took Melkor’s hand and pulled him away.

“Assholes,” Thuringwethil said mildly.  “It’s my birthday.”

“Aw, come on, Thil,” Gothmog said, putting his arm around her shoulders.  “Give ‘em a break.  They’re happy.  They’ve earned it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, knowing it was true.

“Come on,” Gothmog said, walking her forward into the crowd.  “It’s your birthday.  Let me buy you a drink.”

She relented, and let Gothmog lead her back to the bar, leaving their friends to their own devices.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come see me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


	11. I Put a Spell on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor challenges Mairon to enter the costume contest at the Halloween party. He can't quite decide whether or not he regrets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melkor ought to know better by now; Mairon takes challenges very seriously.

“Hey,” said Melkor, stopping as he caught sight of Mairon.

Mairon looked up from the papers in his hand.  “Oh,” he said.  “Hey.  I was just coming to see you.”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to see what your plan is for next weekend.”

“Oh, right,” said Melkor.  “I don’t really have one.”

“Yeah, right,” said Mairon.  “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Melkor said.  “I figured we could stay in—maybe get takeout.  We can borrow some movies from Gothmog.  You know he has nine thousand of them.”

“Melkor.”

“He can even watch them with us,” Melkor said.  “You know, if he wants to apologize for last week.”

“First of all,” said Mairon, “last week was your fault.”

“My fault?” Melkor demanded, indignant.  “He punched me in the face!”

“You were hiding in his office, trying to scare him,” said Mairon.  “What did you expect?”

“Not that, clearly,” said Melkor

“And second,” Mairon said, continuing his original point, “next weekend is Halloween.”

“I know.”

“Do you?  Because I haven’t heard a word about going out.”

“Yeah,” Melkor said.  “I know.  I figured we could stay in this year.”

“Melkor,” he said, looking a little concerned.  “It’s Halloween.  It’s like, _the_ most important day in the Melkor Bauglir calendar.  The high holy day of your entire year.”

“I know,” Melkor said wistfully.

“We have gone to that stupid party for seven years,” Mairon said.

“I’ve gone for twelve,” Melkor said.

“And now you suddenly don’t want to go?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to go,” Melkor said.  “It’s just…I don’t know, Mai.  After everything that’s happened, I thought you could use a break.”

Mairon smiled and walked closer to him.  “That’s really sweet,” he said, standing on tiptoe to kiss Melkor’s cheek.  “Unnecessary, but sweet.”

“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” Melkor said.  “Months, actually.  I just thought—“

“I know,” Mairon said.  “And I appreciate it.  But I don’t want to be coddled.  I want things to go back to normal, and normal is spending the Saturday before Halloween crammed into that shitty bar you love, watching you make an idiot of yourself trying to win a costume contest.”

“Why am I an idiot,” Melkor asked, “when you’re the dumbass that won’t dress up for a costume party?”

“Because,” Mairon said, “I have some dignity and some self-respect.”

“What you have,” said Melkor, “is a giant stick up your ass.”

“I’ve had lots of things up my ass,” Mairon said, “but never a stick.”

Melkor put his face in his hands and laughed.  “Jesus,” he said, lowering his hands and grinning at Mairon.  “All I want to do is call you a stick in the mud, and then you have to go and say shit like that.”

“You’ve always tried to call me a stick in the mud,” Mairon said.  “It’s never been true.”

“Don’t make me pull receipts on that one.”

“Are we going to the party or what?”

Melkor considered him for a moment.  “Okay,” he said.  “We’ll go—on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to dress up.”  Mairon rolled his eyes.  “Uh-uh,” Melkor said firmly.  “You want normal?  Fine.  Normal is actually dressing up for a costume party and entering the goddamn contest.”

“You want me to enter your stupid costume contest?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Mairon asked him, crossing his arms.  “Are you _really_ sure?”

“Uh,” Melkor said warily.  “Yes?  Why?”

“Because,” Mairon said, “I don’t take these kinds of competitions lightly.  If I’m playing this game, I’m in it to win.”

“Oh, honey,” Melkor said patting him on the head.  “Are you worried about hurting my feelings?  That’s cute.”

“Cute, nothing,” Mairon said, swatting his hand away and smoothing down his hair.  “I just don’t want to deal with you crying because you lost for the twelfth year running.”

“If I lose,” Melkor said, “which I won’t, it’s not going to be to you.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’ve seen your ‘costumes’,” Melkor said, making air-quotes around the word.  “You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”

Mairon considered him for a moment, eyebrows raised, and then he grinned.  It was an unsettling gesture, not particularly friendly, and it put Melkor in mind of the way big cats looked on nature documentaries while stalking their prey.  “Fine,” Mairon said, shuffling the papers in his hands.  “I’ll go to your party.  I’ll enter your contest.  But when I win, you have to promise you’re not going to cry about it.”

“When you win,” Melkor said, rolling his eyes.  “Right.  Last year, you wore a borrowed lab coat and claimed to be a scientist.”

“I am a scientist.”

“Which is what made the costume so damn lame,” Melkor said.  He shook his head.  “Look, thanks for your condescending concern, but I’m really not worried.”

The unsettling grin returned to Mairon’s face.  “You should be,” he said.  Then, without another word or so much as a backward glance, he continued down the hall to his office.

Melkor watched him go, a feeling of unease settling in his gut.  “I’ll show you,” he muttered, and went to his office to order some supplies.

*****

“Hey, Thil,” Melkor said, giving her what he hoped was a winning smile as he sauntered into her office.  He walked over to her desk and held out the cup in his hand.  “Coffee?”

“What do you want?” she asked, not looking up from her computer.

“That’s nice,” he said, feigning affront.  “Can’t a guy offer his best friend a cup of coffee without an ulterior motive.”

“Wow,” she said, looking up at last and taking the cup from him.  “So much to unpack there.  First of all, I’m telling Gothmog _and_ Mairon you called me your best friend.  Second, sure.  A guy _can_ offer his friend a cup of coffee without an ulterior motive.  Theoretically, anyway.  But I know you, so there has to be an ulterior motive.”

“I notice your principles don’t extend to turning down the coffee.”

“Why should I suffer because you’re a sneaky bastard?”

“What’s with the insults today?”

“What do you want?” she asked him again. 

“Fine,” he said, leaning on the edge of her desk.  “I’ll level with you.”

“Listening,” she said, a took a sip of her coffee.

“Do you know what Mairon’s costume is?”

“Yes,” she said. 

He waited a moment, but she said nothing else.  “Are you gonna tell me, or…?”

“No,” she said.

“Come on, Thil,” he said.

“No way,” she said.  “I’m sworn to secrecy, and anyway, it’s none of your business.”

“But—“

“Uh-uh,” she said.  “You started this.  It’s too late to back down now.”

“You’re the worst,” he said.

“I ought to get that printed on my business cards.”

“You have business cards?”

She plucked one out of the box on her desk and tossed it to him.  He pocketed it without looking at it.  “So,” he said.

“Still no,” she said.

“Is it because I didn’t look at your business card?”

“No,” she said, “although that was kind of dickish.  I’m not telling you because, a) Mairon’ll kill me if I do, and b) I really want to see you lose this thing.”

“How dare you,” he said, his affront now very real. 

“It’s tradition,” she said.  “You winning would be the end of an era, and honestly, who wants that?”

“Me,” he said.

“Exactly,” she said.

“You’re a jerk,” he said.  “And anyway, you’re not thinking big picture.”

“How’s that?”

“Because if I lose—“

“When you lose,” she said.

“If I lose,” he repeated, glaring at her, “I’m going to whine about it.  A lot.  Loudly.  And after today, probably almost exclusively right here in your office.”  She gave him a sour look and sipped her coffee.  “Chang your mind?” he asked, grinning.

“Nope,” she said.

“Fine,” he said.  “But when I win—“

“You won’t.”

“I’m also going to gloat, loudly and often, right here at your desk.  So think about that the next time you decide not to help me.”

“Fine,” she said.

“You’ll reconsider?”

“Absolutely not,” she said.

Melkor left in a huff, flipping her off on his way out the door.  He stalked down the hall to Gothmog’s office, pushing open the cracked door and going inside.  “Out,” he said to the guard seated across the desk from Gothmog.  She looked like she wanted to argue, but Gothmog shook his head, and so she did as Melkor demanded. 

“What’s your problem?” Gothmog asked, frowning. 

“Do you know what Mairon’s costume is?”

“Yes,” Gothmog said.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No,” he said. 

“God,” Melkor said, flopping dramatically into the recently vacated chair.  “What is wrong with you people?”

“Thil turned you down too?”

“You guys are supposed to be my friends,” Melkor complained.  “You’re supposed to help me”

“Maybe I would’ve,” Gothmog said, “if you’d come to me first.”

“Wait, really?”

“No.”

“Fuck you,” Melkor said.  “Both of you.  Why won’t you tell me?”

“Why do you want to know so badly?”  Melkor glared at him, and Gothmog grinned.  “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“Why would I be worried?”

“Because,” Gothmog said.  “You made a really dumb mistake in challenging Mairon, and you know it.”

“It’s a costume contest,” Melkor said.  “Dude’s never worn a costume in his life.  Not even in—”

“Don’t,” said Gothmog, making a face.  “It will absolutely, one hundred percent hurt your case.”

“Does that mean I have a case?”

“No,” Gothmog said, “but please don’t tell me anyway.”

“Just give me a hint.”

“No,” Gothmog said.  “But I will tell you one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna fucking lose your mind when you see him.”

*****

“Thil says me losing this contest is a tradition,” Melkor said, taking the cigarette from Gothmog’s hand and taking a drag, “but I think the real tradition is the two of us standing here like a couple of idiots waiting for those two to finish primping.”

“In Thil’s defense,” said Gothmog, “she always looks damn good.”

“So do I,” Melkor said, “and I don’t take nearly as long to get ready as she does.”

Gothmog looked over Melkor’s costume again, nodding approvingly.  He was dressed as Han Solo, and Gothmog had to admit he didn’t look half bad.  “It is a good costume,” he said grudgingly.

“I know,” Melkor said, grinning and running his hands down his vest.  “All the Star Wars hype lately gives me a little boost for popularity.”

“If you say so,” Gothmog said.

“If you’re such a skeptic,” Melkor said, “then why’d you copy me?”

“One,” Gothmog said, “I didn’t copy you.  I’m Finn, not Han.  And anyway, I had mine first.”

“Yeah,” said Gothmog, “but you bought it as a replica, not as a costume.”

“This is true.”

“Honestly, I never expected you to wear it.”

“Halloween snuck up on me this year,” he said.  “And anyway, I’ve been a little busy, what with babysitting your sorry ass, plus the whole Mai-almost-dying thing.”

“Excuses,” Melkor said.  “And anyway, if Mairon didn’t use that as an excuse, then neither can you.”

“So you really didn’t manage to find out what he’s doing?”

“No,” Melkor said sourly.

“That’s a little sad,” Gothmog said.  “I mean, you’re over there all the time.”

“Believe me,” Melkor said, “I tried.  He must’ve hid it or something.”

“It was at Thil’s,” Gothmog said.

“God damn it,” Melkor said, and Gothmog laughed.

“Hey, losers,” said Thuringwethil, coming around the corner.

“Damn, Thil,” said Gothmog.  “Lookin’ good.”

“Thanks,” she said, grinning as she reached them.  Gothmog held out his hand, and she took it, letting him spin her around.  She was dressed as Wonder Woman, and he skirt flared out around her as she moved, soles of her boots sliding easily on the pavement.  “Mai helped me pick it out.”

“Speaking of Mairon,” Gothmog said, “where is he?”

“Here,” Mairon said, coming around the corner at last. 

He walked toward them, and Melkor felt himself staring, unable to look away.  Mairon grinned at him in a way that suggested he knew exactly how good he looked; there was a raw confidence about him, an assuredness that, while not new, had been allowed to surface.  Mairon wore it easily and well, and Melkor watched him approach, feeling his pulse quicken as he came closer. 

“Dude,” Gothmog said appreciatively, “you look like you just walked off the set of _Gladiator_.”

“Nah,” Thuringwethil said.  “Try _Spartacus_.”

“ _300_ , maybe?”

He flashed that grin again, and Melkor couldn’t help thinking once more that Mairon knew exactly how good he looked.  His costume was indeed movie set quality; he wore a close-fitting leather jerkin that bared his arms and a skirt of leather strips that ended at the knee.  His hair was braided high on his head, and his eyes were lined expertly in black.  Mairon reached the three of them, bounced on the balls of his feet, and said, “I take it I look good?” 

“Good?” Thuringwethil said, raising an eyebrow.  “Dude, if you weren’t spoken for, I’m pretty sure you could have your pick of any of the douchebags in this bar.”

“Speaking of your boyfriend,” Gothmog said, glancing at Melkor, “I think you short-circuited him.”

Mairon turned toward Melkor, looking up at him expectantly.  “Well?” he asked, fighting a grin at the wonder on Melkor’s face.

“Holy shit,” was all Melkor could say.

Gothmog laughed.  “What’d I tell you?”

“I seem to recall something about me not having a snowball’s chance in hell of winning this contest,” Mairon said, looking at Melkor. 

Melkor said nothing, his fingers trailing reverently over the soft skin at the hollow of Mairon’s throat.

“Uh,” said Gothmog, looking between them, “you know we’re in public, right?”

“I am painfully aware,” Melkor said.

Mairon laughed.  “Come on,” he said, patting Melkor gently on the shoulder.  “Let’s get inside.  I don’t want to miss it.”

*****

“Hey,” said Melkor, sidling up behind Mairon and wrapping both arms around him.  Mairon leaned back against him, holding his drink away from him to steady it.

“Hey,” Mairon said, grinning.  He leaned back, turning his face to look up at Melkor.  Melkor leaned down to kiss him, and then put his lips to Mairon’s ear.

“Let’s go,” he said, nuzzling his cheek against Mairon’s.

“Go where?” Mairon asked, letting his head rest against Melkor’s shoulder. 

“Anywhere,” Melkor said, holding him tight against his chest.  “I want—“

“Oh, I know what you want,” Mairon said, grinning.  He reached back, sliding his hand up the back of Melkor’s leg.  “But you’re going to have to wait.”

“I can’t,” Melkor said, shifting his weight forward under the gentle pressure of Mairon’s hand.

“You can,” Mairon said.  “Just a little while longer.”

“How long?” Melkor asked, a definite whine in his voice.

Mairon extricated himself from Melkor’s grip and turned to face him, smiling sweetly up at him.  “Just until I win,” he said.

*****

“Okay,” Gothmog said later, holding the door for them to pass, “I know your costume’s good and all, but I have literally never seen the judges make a decision that fast.”

“Can you blame them?” said Thuringwethil.  “I mean, look at this kid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Melkor said, draping his arm over Mairon’s shoulders.  “Feed his ego, why don’t you.”

“To be fair,” Thuringwthil said, “he earned it.”

“I sure as hell did,” said Mairon, grinning.

“God,” Melkor complained, “I’m going to have to hear about this for a while, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mairon said.  “Without a doubt.”

“Can I ask you something?” said Gothmog, and Mairon nodded.  “Why a gladiator?”

“Because I wanted to win,” Mairon said. 

“Don’t make me drag it out of you, douchebag.”

“Okay,” Mairon said, laughing.  “You want the secret to my success?”

“I swear to God—“

“It’s a careful combination,” he said, grinning, “of ‘know your enemy’ and ‘use your assets’.”

“Assets, huh?” said Melkor, sliding his hand down to Mairon’s ass.

“Exactly,” Mairon said.

“Gross,” said Gothmog, more out of habit than out of any actual malice.  “And anyway, that particular asset was only gonna help you with like, maybe one judge.”

“Let’s call her judge number one,” Mairon said.  “Off-duty bartender.  Straight girl.  Probably checking me out and liking what she sees.”

“And you accuse me of having an ego,” Melkor said.

“Not to mention,” Mairon said, ignoring him, “Thil said this girl has a degree in classics.  Fair bet she’d like the gladiator costume.”

“Okay,” Gothmog said, “but judge number two is the off-duty bouncer.  He’s hella straight.”

“He was the tricky one,” Mairon said.  “But I was counting on a tough guy liking an old-timey warrior costume.”

“Fair enough,” said Gothmog. 

“Which brings us to judge number three,” Mairon said.  “The owner’s brother.”

“Cousin, I think,” said Thuringwethil.

“Whatever,” said Mairon.  “The point is, he finds an excuse to touch my ass every single year.”

“What, even this year?” Melkor said.

“More than once,” Mairon said.

“Sneaky bastard,” Melkor said.

“Which means,” said Mairon, grinning, “I can lump him in with judge number two, under the ‘definitely into me’ category.”

“Damn your hot body,” said Melkor.

Mairon laughed.  “Not what you typically say,” Mairon said.

“Yeah,” Melkor said, “you’re right.  I take it back.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Real talk, though,” said Melkor.  “You have no right to look that good in a skirt.”

“You like it?”

“Way too much,” he said, pulling Mairon a little closer.

“No, but for real this time,” Gothmog said.  “Gross.”

Mairon leaned into Melkor, walking on tiptoe to whisper in Melkor’s ear.  “If you like this,” he said, “then wait ‘til you see my backup costume.”

Melkor said nothing; instead, he turned toward Mairon, grabbing him around the waist and picking him up.  Mairon laughed as Melkor hoisted him over his shoulder and strode briskly away.  “Wait,” he said, laughing and kicking his feet.  “Melkor—“

“Uh-uh,” Melkor said firmly, his arm across Mairon’s legs.  “You talk like that, you better be prepared to deliver.”

“Oh, I’m prepared,” Mairon said slyly.  “If you know what I mean.”

“Jesus,” Gothmog said, regrettably still within earshot.  Melkor swore and quickened his pace.  “Wait,” Gothmog called after him.  “I rode with you!”

“I’ll take you home,” Thuringwethil said.  “Trust me—you don’t want to be anywhere near that car.”

“Fair point,” Gothmog said, grimacing.  “God, they’re obnoxious.”

“Yeah,” she said, watching them go.  “But at least they’re happy again.”

“There is that,” he said, watching them disappear into the parking lot.

“Come on,” Thuringwethil said, putting her arm through his.  “I’ll let you buy me some drunk food.”

“Guess I gotta earn my ride home, huh?”

“My thoughts exactly,” she said, and let him walk her to her car. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mairon's hair looks something like [this](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/a1/3f/3c/a13f3c7fa2ba914fbce055de48fceff2--lagertha-hair-katheryn-winnick.jpg).
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](https://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


	12. Fight the Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder what would happen if Melkor was forced to sit through the company workplace harassment seminar? Let's find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this.

“Wake up,” Mairon hissed, elbowing Melkor in the ribs.

“Jesus, fuck,” Melkor said, jumping as he was startled awake.  The Human Resources manager, who had been speaking, glared at him disapprovingly before continuing.  Melkor looked over at Mairon, scowling.  “What the fuck was that for?” he demanded, lowering his voice.

“Because you were snoring,” Mairon said.  “And also because if I have to sit through this garbage, then so do you.”

“I’m here,” Melkor said.  “I’m sitting.”

“Awake,” Mairon said.

“But—”

“Do you have a question, Mr. Bauglir?” asked the manager, staring pointedly at him.

“Huh?” Melkor said, turning toward her.

“You’ve interrupted several times,” she said, annoyed.  “Was there something you wanted to ask?”

Gothmog snickered, and Thuringwethil shot him a disapproving look. 

“About what?” Melkor asked her.  

“This seminar,” she said, tapping her fingers against her arm in a show of impatience.

“Yeah,” said Melkor.  “I’ve got a question.”

“Don’t engage him,” Thuringwethil warned her, but Melkor was faster.

“What the fuck are we doing here?” he asked.

“What are we doing,” said the manager, pursing her lips, “is the yearly workplace harassment seminar—which I notice from the records you skipped for the last three years.”

“In my defense,” Melkor said, “I was in jail, where I probably learned way more about harassment than you could ever teach me.  And anyway,” he continued, grinning as Gothmog let out a bark of laughter, “I don’t think I should be required to attend this stupid thing.”

She crossed her arms.  “Why not?”

“Because,” said Melkor.  “I’m the boss.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Hello,” Melkor said, raising his eyebrows as though he couldn’t believe her ignorance.  “I’m the boss—the guy who owns the place.  Anything I do is just, you know, bossing.  Or whatever.”

“On the contrary,” she said, adopting a look of knowing superiority that grated on Melkor’s nerves.  “There are many, many ways a supervisor can contribute to a hostile work environment.”

“Nope,” said Melkor.

“I—what?”

“Not me,” said Melkor, grinning into the face of Thuringwethil’s death glare.

“Are you sure about that?” asked the manager, incrementally losing her hold on both patience and restraint.

“Absolutely,” Melkor said.

“You can’t think of anything,” prompted the manager, who could’ve wallpapered her office with reports of Melkor’s workplace chicanery, “not one thing that would constitute harassment on your part?”

Melkor was also quickly losing his grip on both patience and restraint.  But where the manager’s patience gave way to irritation, Melkor’s gave way to a petty, vindictive sense of mischief.  He tapped his finger against his chin, as though thinking.  “Hmm,” he said, making a show of considering her question. 

“Don’t,” Thuringwthil said, catching the look in his eye.

Melkor ignored her.  “How about this?” he asked.  He leaned over and slid his hand up the inside of Mairon’s thigh, squeezing gently at his crotch. 

“Mr. Bauglir!” said the manager, affronted. 

“Can you not?” Mairon said, rolling his eyes and shifting away.

“You like it,” Melkor said.

“Mr. Bauglir,” said the manager again, stalking toward him.  “That is sexual harassment.”

“It’s sexual, alright,” Melkor said.  “But I don’t know if I’d call it harassment.”

“Do you think this is a joke?” she demanded.

“Which part?” he asked.  “Wait—doesn’t matter.  Answer’s yes.”  Gothmog laughed, and the manager shot him a disapproving look.

“Mr. Bauglir, you’re violating Mr. Smith’s—”

“Not currently,” Melkor said.  “Maybe later, though.”

Gothmog was half in tears.  Thuringwethil jabbed her elbow hard into his ribs.  Mairon shook his head. 

The manager looked at a loss.  She turned to Mairon.  “I take it from Mr. Bauglir’s attitude that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

Mairon snorted.  “First time today, maybe.”

“So Mr. Bauglir has harassed you before?”

“Every day,” Mairon said, though from the look on her face, she did not catch the sarcasm in his voice.  He caught Melkor’s eye and stifled a grin.

“Don’t let him intimidate you,” said the manager, mistaking the intent of his glance.

Mairon looked at Thuringwethil, who shook her head warningly.  He gave a half-shrug and resolved to make it up to her later.  “Well,” said Mairon, glancing nervously at Melkor before looking back at the manager.  “This morning, for example.  I went to his office to ask for advice on a very important project.”

“Don’t you dare,” Melkor said, fighting a grin.

The manager shot him an angry look before turning back to Mairon.  “Go ahead,” she said encouragingly.

“I asked for his help,” Mairon said, “and he—well, he said it’d cost me, if you know what I mean.”

“You dickhole,” Melkor said, grinning outright.

“These accusations are, frankly, appalling,” said the manager.

“What’s appalling,” said Gothmog, “is how thin the walls are around here.”

“This is not a joke,” she said, rounding on Gothmog.  “Mr. Bauglir forced himself on an employee under his direct supervision.”

“Please,” said Melkor, rolling his eyes.  “Like I’d ever need force.  This dude loves to have a dick in his mouth.”  Mairon smacked the back of his hand against Melkor’s chest.  “What?” Melkor demanded.  “It’s true.”

“Yeah,” Mairon said, “but still.”

“And for the record,” said Melkor, “Mairon was the one who suggested the blow-job-for-work-advice deal, not me.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Mairon shot back.

“Hell no,” said Melkor, grinning.

“What’s going on here?” asked the bewildered HR manager

“Oh, honey,” said Gothmog, shaking his head.  “You must be the only person in this building who doesn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That my COO does a hell of a lot more than suck my dick,” said Melkor, grinning at the look of shock on her face.

“I—but he—“She looked pleadingly at Thuringwethil, who sighed and shook her head.

“They’re dating,” Thuringwethil said.

“But that’s against company policy,” was all the manager could say. 

“Is not,” said Melkor.

“It is,” she insisted.

“I own the company,” he said.  “I make the policies.  I guarantee you I wouldn’t box myself into a rule that stupid.”

“It’s standard procedure,” she said.

“Not here,” he said firmly.  “Thank God,” he added, draping his arm over Mairon’s shoulders. 

“This is highly inappropriate,” said the manager, making a valiant attempt to rally her dignity. 

“I’m barely touching him,” Melkor said, pulling Mairon closer.

“You’re his supervisor,” she said.  “The imbalanced power dynamic inherent in that kind of relationship—”

“Please,” Melkor said, rolling his eyes.  “You’ve obviously never tried to boss Mairon around.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said doggedly.  “You’re his direct supervisor, and as such, the balance of power between you is inherently—”

“Is it just me,” said Melkor, “or is all this talk of power dynamics really fucking hot?”

“Jesus,” said Thuringwethil, rubbing tiredly at her eyes.

“Gross,” said Gothmog, making a face.

“Yes,” said Mairon.  Melkor leaned down and kissed him.

“Can you two not?” Gothmog said, rolling his eyes.

“Killjoy,” said Melkor.  He glanced at the HR manager.  “So are we done here?”

“Done?” she repeated, baffled.

“Good,” said Melkor, deliberately misunderstanding her.  “I have way more important shit to do than stand here and be lectured.”

“Mr. Bauglir,” she said, drawing herself up and pulling in a shaky breath.  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to lodge a formal complaint.”

“Don’t bother,” he said.  “You’re fired.”

“I—what?  On what grounds?”

“I don’t know,” he said.  “I’m sure Thil will think of something good for your pink slip, though.”

“You can’t—”

“For the bajillionth time,” he said, annoyed.  “I own the company.  Stop trying to tell me what I can and can’t do.  Literally nothing falls into that second category.”

For a moment, she looked as though she was going to argue.  Then she shook her head, turned on her heel, and stalked out of the room.

“Well,” said Mairon, watching her go, “she lasted longer than I thought she would.”

“She lasted exactly as long as she needed to,” Melkor said.

“How’s that?” Gothmog asked.

“We finished the seminar, didn’t we?”

“No,” said Thuringwethil sourly.  “We didn’t.  Honest to God, Melkor.  I don’t ask for a lot.  You couldn’t do this one thing?”

“I mean, I probably _could_ have.”

“Asshole.”

“She provoked me,” he said

“She did her goddamn job.”

“Which is…?”

“To cover your dumb ass from getting sued,” Thuringwethil said.

“I thought that was your job.”

“I can and will recuse myself,” she said.

“I thought that only applied to judges,” said Mairon.

“Shut up,” she said.  She turned and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Melkor asked.

“To find her,” Thuringwethil said, “and offer her a really nice severance package in the hopes she won’t sue us.”

“I have total confidence in you.”

She flipped him off and disappeared down the hall.

“Well, that went well,” said Melkor.

“Yeah, right,” said Gothmog, rolling his eyes.

“What?”

“You’re an instigator,” Mairon said.

“You’re one to talk,” Melkor shot back. 

“You’re both terrible,” Gothmog said.

“Says the guy who couldn’t quit laughing.”

“Yeah, well,” Gothmog said, grinning.  “It was a really fucking boring seminar.  I was dying for a little entertainment.”

“You got some,” Mairon said.

“Speaking of getting some,” Melkor said.

“And I’m out,” said Gothmog, pushing himself up from his chair.  “I’ve had about enough of you two for one afternoon.”

“You sure?” Melkor said, grinning.  “There’s always room for one more.”

“Fuck you,” Gothmog said mildly.

“That’s what I was suggesting.”  Gothmog, like Thuringwethil, flipped him off and disappeared out into the hall.  “Well that was rude,” he said, turning back to Mairon.

“His loss,” Mairon said, shrugging.  He pressed his palms to Melkor’s chest, bounced up on the balls of his feet, and kissed him.  “Thil’s gonna kill us, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Melkor.  Then he grinned, giving Mairon a sly look.  “How about we sneak in a second round before we die?”

“Your office or mine?”

“Neither,” Melkor said, and went to close the door.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


	13. Sweet Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor's been working all day and thinks he deserves a break. Fortunately, Mairon's got him covered. Gothmog learns a lesson about knocking and laments Angband's thin walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, since Mairon's giving out blow jobs on company time.

“I’m bored,” Melkor said, slouching low in his chair.

“I know,” Mairon said.  “You’ve told me, like, a hundred times.”

“And yet,” Melkor said.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Mairon said, scribbling a note on the piece of paper in front of him.  “Do you have the altitude readings from the Friday test flight?”

“Probably,” Melkor said, though he made no move to find the document in question.  Mairon rolled his eyes and leaned over to search the stack of papers on the desk in front of Melkor.  “We’ve been doing this all day,” Melkor complained, either oblivious or unconcerned that he was in Mairon’s way.

“We’ve been doing this two hours,” Mairon said, reaching the end of the stack and frowning.

“Same thing,” Melkor said.

Mairon looked through the stack again and found nothing.  He made a noise of irritation and leaned half-out of his chair, rifling through the papers in Melkor’s lap.  “You know,” he said, half-falling from his precarious position and catching himself with a hand on Melkor’s leg, “we’d be done a lot sooner if you’d help.”

Melkor shifted his weight, pushing into the pressure of Mairon’s palm against his thigh and humming appreciatively.  “That’s nice,” he said, biting his bottom lip.

“I’m barely touching you,” Mairon said.

“And yet,” said Melkor again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Mairon said, though he didn’t move his hand. 

“I’m deprived,” said Melkor, laying his hand over Mairon’s.

“Not sure that word means what you think it does,” said Mairon, flexing his fingers under Melkor’s hand.

“Fine, then,” said Melkor, sliding Mairon’s palm higher up his leg.  “Greedy.”

“That sounds about right,” said Mairon.  His tone was measured and calm, but Melkor could feel him press a little harder against him.  Melkor picked up the papers in his lap and tossed them onto the desk.  Mairon’s hand was high on his thigh, tantalizingly close to far more interesting territory.  He shifted his weight, angling himself a little closer to the press of Mairon’s hand.  “We have work to do,” Mairon said, though he let his fingers wander up to Melkor’s waistband. 

“We could use a break,” Melkor said.  Mairon’s fingers pressed into the skin of Melkor’s stomach, fingertips sliding toward his hip.  Melkor shifted again, and Mairon inhaled sharply, his hand skating lower over Melkor’s hip. 

“You might be right,” Mairon said, tracing slow, teasing circles into Melkor’s skin. 

“Come here,” Melkor said, pulling him out of his chair.  Mairon let Melkor pull him into his lap and settled himself precariously in the chair, one knee on either side of Melkor’s hips.  He took Melkor’s face in his hands and kissed him, thumbs stroking across Melkor’s cheekbones.  Melkor ran his hands up Mairon’s thighs and over the curve of his ass, kneading gently as Mairon moaned softly, the sound humming through his lips and into Melkor’s. 

“Working together is a terrible idea,” Mairon said, his head falling gently onto Melkor’s shoulder as Melkor slid his hand around to palm Mairon’s obvious erection. 

“Come home once in a while,” Melkor said, running his palm roughly up the ridge of Mairon’s erection, “and I won’t have to jump you at work.”

“You’d jump me at work no matter what,” Mairon said, turning his head to nip at Melkor’s jaw.  “And anyway,” he breathed, lips trailing hot and slow down Melkor’s throat, “I was home last night.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Melkor, voice breaking as his head fell back against the chair.  He fumbled open the clasp of Mairon’s belt.  “Or do,” he said, undoing the clasp and zipper of Mairon’s pants.  “God, that was hot.”

“I know,” said Mairon, running his palm roughly over the muscle of Melkor’s chest.  “God, my ass is still—“He gasped as Melkor slid his hand down the slant of Mairon’s hip and took hold of his cock, stroking gently.  His head fell forward, forehead pressing into Melkor’s shoulder, and he moaned softly. 

“Still what?” Melkor asked, teasing, stroking a little harder, a little faster. 

“Still—oh, fuck.”  Melkor dragged his thumb through the fluid gathered at the tip of Mairon’s cock and stroked him harder still.  He slid his free hand up to the back of Mairon’s neck and pulled him down, kissing him hard.  Mairon pressed himself into Melkor’s palm, his tongue sliding into Melkor’s mouth, kissing him hungrily. 

“Not sure that’s work-appropriate language,” Melkor said, letting his hand fall to Mairon’s chest and dragging his thumb across Mairon’s nipple. 

“Not sure this is a work-appropriate activity,” Mairon shot back, trailing kisses along the curve of Melkor’s jaw. 

“Fuck, this is hot,” Melkor said, tilting his head so Mairon could press his lips to the tender skin under his jaw.  Mairion hummed his agreement, setting his teeth none-too-gently to the place where neck met shoulder.  “Fuck,” said Melkor again, marveling not for the first time at how easily Mairon could get him worked up.

“Not sure that’s work-appropriate language,” Mairon said, mock-serious.    

“This is definitely not a work-appropriate activity,” Melkor shot back, as Mairon pulled at the collar of his shirt, kissing the warm skin of his chest. 

“You know what else is definitely not a work-appropriate activity?” Mairon asked, sitting back and flashing Melkor a mischievous grin.  He slid out of the chair, not waiting for an answer.  He knelt at Melkor’s feet, pushing his legs apart and running his hands up Melkor’s thighs. 

“Please,” Melkor breathed, letting his head fall back against the chair, “for the love of God, tell me it involves your hands on my dick.”

Mairon laughed, his fingers already deftly undoing Melkor’s pants.  “You know what your problem is?” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. 

“What?” he asked, raising his hips to let Mairon pull down his jeans. 

“You lack vision,” Mairon said, and lowered his head to take Melkor’s cock in his mouth.

“Holy fuck,” Melkor said by way of agreement.  Mairon’s stifled laugh came to Melkor as a hum through Mairon’s mouth, and he shuddered, swearing again.  “God, I’m glad we work together,” he said, sliding his hand against the back of Mairon’s head.  He buried his fingers in Mairon’s hair and pushed him down, gasping as Mairon took him easily to the back of his throat.  He loosened his grip on Mairon’s hair, but Mairon stayed where he was a moment longer, his nose pressed to Melkor’s navel.  Melkor’s free hand tightened on the arm of the chair, and despite his efforts at control, his hips rolled up, pushing him deeper into Mairon’s mouth.  Mairon moaned softly, his fingertips digging into the points of Melkor’s hips.  Melkor swore, fingers involuntarily burying themselves deeper in Mairon’s hair. 

Mairon let Melkor guide him into a quickening rhythm, his fingers tracing teasing circles against Melkor’s skin.  Melkor was already close, brought to the edge by the clever trace of Mairon’s tongue against him.  He pressed against the back of Mairon’s head, rolling his hips to push deeper into his mouth.  Another minute, and—

“Hey,” said Gothmog, knocking on the door.  “You got a sec?”

Melkor caught Mairon’s eye, and they shared a split-second look of panic.  Then Gothmog was in the room, pushing the door open without waiting for Melkor to answer. 

Melkor reacted without thinking, sliding his chair closer to the desk.  He winced, hearing Mairon connect with the underside of the desk. 

“Did I scare you?” Gothmog asked, grinning. 

“What do you want?” Melkor said, making an effort to regain his composure. 

“What, no hello?” Gothmog said. 

“I was sleeping,” Melkor lied.

Gothmog rolled his eyes.  “Of course you were.”

Melkor felt Mairon’s hands running lightly up his thighs, and he gripped the arms of his chair, fighting to keep a straight face.  “What do you want?” he demanded again, not quite looking at Gothmog. 

“God, you’re in a mood,” Gothmog said, crossing his arms. 

Mairon’s fingers wrapped around the base of Melkor’s cock, and Melkor’s grip tightened on the arm of his chair.  “I’m busy,” Melkor said gruffly as Mairon stroked him. 

Gothmog raised an eyebrow at him.  “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Fuck,” Melkor said, as Mairon ran his tongue up the underside of Melkor’s cock.  “What’s with the third degree?”

“I’m not—”

“Jesus fuck!” Melkor gritted out, as Mairon took his cock into his mouth once more.  “What do you want, Gothmog?”

“The budget thing you were supposed to email me,” Gothmog said, crossing his arms and scowling.  “Like, two weeks ago.”

“I’ll send it to you,” Melkor said, barely resisting the urge to thrust up into Mairon’s mouth.  “Today.”

“That’s what you said last week,” Gothmog said. 

“If I do it right now,” Melkor said, hoping Gothmog couldn’t hear the desperation in his voice, “will you leave me the fuck alone?”

“What’s your problem?” Gothmog asked, annoyed. 

“Not feeling great,” he lied, feeling Mairon’s stifled laughter as a hum against his skin.  It was oddly arousing, and his fingertips dug divots into the leather of his chair. 

“You don’t look great,” Gothmog said, taking a step closer.  “You’re all sweaty.”

“It’s hot in here,” Melkor said, fingers shaking as he struggled to navigate his email amid the insanity of his current situation.

“Open a window,” Gothmog said, heading for the closest one, which was parallel to Melkor’s desk.   

“No,” Melkor said.  “Wait!”

Gothmog threw back the latch and pushed up the window.  Then he turned on his heel and walked back to the other side of the desk.  “What is your fucking problem today?” he asked, eyeing Melkor with an irritation that had started to edge into concern. 

“There,” Melkor growled, feeling Mairon quicken his pace.  “I sent it.  Now will you please get out?”

“Melkor—”

“Out!” Melkor half-shouted, feeling the tip of his cock nudging at the back of Mairon’s throat. 

“Fine, asshole,” Gothmog said.  “Have it your way.”  He stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Melkor swore, rolling back his chair.  Mairon crawled out from under the desk, grinning up at him, obviously pleased with himself.  “You’re insane.”

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

“A minute ago,” Melkor said, “I was dangerously close to coming in your mouth.”

“And now?” Mairon asked, cocking his head and looking up at Melkor with a mischievous grin that sent a stab of arousal through Melkor’s core.

“You want to find out?” Melkor shot back, angling his hips toward Mairon. 

Mairon laughed and ducked his head, running his tongue around the head of Melkor’s cock.  “Well?” he said, looking up at Melkor through his lashes. 

“Well what?” Melkor breathed, eyes half-closed. 

“How close are you?”

“I—fuck!”  Mairon pressed his lips to the tip of Melkor’s cock, dragging his tongue through the precum dripping from the slit.  “Oh, fuck,” he said as Mairon took him down, setting a quick, efficient rhythm.  “Oh, fuck,” he said again, volume and urgency increasing, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair.  “Fuck, yes,” he moaned, rolling his hips up again and again, fucking Mairon’s mouth hard and fast.  “Oh, God, yes.  Fuck!  Mai!”  He came with a shout, Mairon’s name on his lips, spilling himself into Mairon’s mouth.

“Fuck’s sake!” Gothmog shouted, his voice muffled through the woefully inadequate wall that separated them. 

Mairon sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning.  His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright and hungry.  Needy, Melkor realized with a jolt, feeling himself twitch uncomfortably, still raw, too sensitive.  “That close,” he said, grinning down at Mairon.

Mairon threw back his head and laughed, and Melkor pulled him up and into his lap.  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, stroking hair back from Mairon’s face and kissing his swollen lips. 

“I’m a mess,” Mairon said, grinning.  “Which, you know.  Your fault.”

“Sorry,” Melkor said, grinning back.

“I’m not,” Mairon said, leaning in to kiss him.  He turned his head, pressing a slow trail of kisses along Melkor’s cheek.  “I think we disturbed our good friend Gothmog,” he said, mock-serious.

“From the sound of the shouting,” Melkor said, “I’d say you’re right.”

Mairon nuzzled his cheek against Melkor’s and pressed his lips to Melkor’s ear.  “Wanna do it again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


	14. New Sensation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor asks Mairon to try something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two words: bottom Melkor. Obviously nsfw for, you know, butt stuff.

“Can I ask you something?”

Mairon blinked, looking up at Melkor from where he lay beneath him on the couch.  His fingers curled gently in Melkor’s hair, and he pulled Melkor close to kiss him again.  Melkor let Mairon pull him down, kissing soft lips already swollen from the same. 

“You know,” Mairon said, his breath warm and close on Melkor’s lips, “it’s a little unfair to ask me things when your hand is on my cock.”

Melkor considered this, and decided it might be true.  His hand stilled, fingers held loosely around the base of Mairon’s cock, and he looked down at him, running his free hand over the bare skin of Mairon’s chest.  “I can stop,” he said, brushing a thumb gently over the stiffening skin of Mairon’s nipple.

“Don’t you dare,” he breathed, hips rolling gently up to press himself into Melkor’s hand.  Melkor grinned and resumed his slow, teasing rhythm.  Mairon’s eyes slid half-closed, hips moving gently in time with Melkor’s hand.  His fingers traced slow, electrifying circles into the skin of Melkor’s thigh.  “What did you want to ask me?” he said after a moment, eyes blinking open with an effort.

Melkor almost didn’t answer.  Mairon was a pretty sight beneath him, naked and flushed from the wine, a little on edge, a little needy.  But the idea niggled at him, had been needling him all night, and so he did.  “What would you think,” he said carefully, watching Mairon’s face, “about fucking me?”

Mairon laughed softly, and tugged gently at Melkor’s hair, pressing up to kiss him again.  “Newsflash, honey,” he said, pressing another kiss to Melkor’s lips.  “This isn’t our first time.”

Mellkor snorted.  “Believe me,” he said, kissing Mairon again.  “I know.”  He trailed his lips along the curve of Mairon’s jaw and brushed them against the shell of his ear.  “What I meant,” he murmured, as Mairon tilted his head to nuzzle against Melkor’s cheek, “was you fucking _me_.”

It took a moment for the weight of his words to sink in.  Mairon shifted back, looking up at him, surprised.  “Me,” he said.  Melkor nodded.  “Fucking you.”

“You sound surprised,” said Melkor, rhythm faltering, his hand falling still.

“No,” Mairon said, shifting himself up to lean on his elbow.  “I just—I mean, I didn’t know you were interested.”

“I am now,” said Melkor.

“Have you done it before?” Mairon asked.

“Yes,” Melkor said.  “But not often.  Have you?”

“Same answer.”

It was silent a moment, and Melkor slid his palm up the length of Mairon’s cock, relishing the sharp hiss of Mairon’s gasp.  “That’s cheating,” Mairon said, back arching gently to push himself into Melkor’s touch.

“I can stop,” Melkor said again, and laughed as Mairon pulled him hard into a kiss.  Then Mairon pushed himself up, and Melkor sat back on his heels.  Mairon pushed himself to Melkor’s chest, kissing him again and again, his hands in Melkor’s hair, on his chest, the small of his back, and down to his ass. 

“So,” Mairon murmured, trailing kisses down Melkor’s throat.  “You want me to fuck you.”

“Yes,” Melkor said, eyes shuddering closed.  He ran his hands up Mairon’s sides, sliding his palms up Mairon’s chest.

“Mmm,” Mairon hummed, pressing himself into Melkor’s touch.  “You want me inside you?”

“Oh, God,” Melkor murmured, as Mairon trailed his lips along the slant of his collarbone to the hollow of his throat.  “Yes.”

Mairon lingered for a moment at the soft skin of Melkor’s throat, breathing in the scent of him.  “Which part of me, hm?” he asked, and Melkor could hear the gentle teasing in his words.  Mairon brought his lips to Melkor’s nipple, running his tongue over it, his breath hot on Melkor’s skin. 

“Fuck,” Melkor gasped, arching into the press of Mairon’s tongue. 

“My fingers?” Mairon said, ignoring the increasing desperation of Melkor’s breaths.  He trailed his fingers down Melkor’s sides, and Melkor shivered.  He trailed kisses down Melkor’s chest, down his stomach, stopping tantalizingly close to the base of his cock.  “My tongue?” he asked, and he turned his head, brushing his lips against the base of Melkor’s cock.

“Fuck,” Melkor said again, sliding his fingers through Mairon’s hair, barely restraining himself from pushing Mairon down.

“Or maybe,” Mairon murmured, trailing kisses far too softly up the length of Melkor’s cock, “you want my cock inside you.”  He trailed his tongue in a lazy circle around the head of Melkor’s cock. 

“Oh, God,” Melkor said, voice rasping, his fingers curling in Mairon’s hair.  “Anything, Mairon.  Please.”

“Well,” Mairon said, mock-solemn.  “When you ask that nicely…”He pressed his lips to the tip of Melkor’s cock in a lingering kiss that made Melkor gasp.  Mairon pressed his hand to Melkor’s chest and pushed him back.  Melkor let himself fall back, head on the arm of the couch.  Mairon knelt between his legs, hands rubbing roughly up the skin of Melkor’s thighs.  He took Melkor into his mouth, and Melkor swore, hips snapping up involuntarily.  Mairon took him down, stifled laughter humming through Melkor’s skin. 

Mairon let Melkor set his rhythm, moving his head with the motion of Melkor’s hips, letting Melkor thrust up into his mouth.  He trailed his fingers over Melkor’s thighs, teasing circles that made Melkor shiver.  He let his hands wander lower, palming at the curve of Melkor’s ass. He ducked his head, sliding his tongue along the underside of Melkor’s cock and taking him down as far as he conceivably could, the tip of Melkor’s cock pressing at the back of his throat.  Melkor’s back arched involuntarily, hips lifting off the couch, pressing further into Mairon’s mouth.  Mairon took advantage of his motion, trailing his fingers over Melkor’s ass and pressing gently inside him.

Melkor swore, and Mairon’s felt him tighten around his fingers.  He stilled his hand, letting Melkor adjust to the feel of it, but he kept the steady rhythm of his mouth on Melkor’s cock.  Melkor’s fingers dug into the couch cushions, and Mairon fought the urge to grin.  Melkor’s hips fell back to the couch, and he relaxed a little, biting his bottom lip.  Mairon’s free hand slid slow and gentle up Melkor’s side, and he took Melkor’s hand, guiding it to his head.  Melkor buried his fingers in Mairon’s hair and pushed him down, guiding Mairon’s mouth along his cock.

Mairon pressed his finger further inside Melkor, and Melkor’s legs fell a little further apart.  The thrust of his hips slowed to a stop, and though his hand was at the back of Mairon’s head, he didn’t urge Mairon down.  His eyes were closed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.  Mairon watched him, drawing back his head a little and looking up at him.  “You okay?” he asked, fingernails scratching gently down Melkor’s side.  He pressed his lips in a soft trail up Melkor’s erection, and Melkor gasped. 

“Yes,” Melkor breathed, fingers curling in Mairon’s hair.  “God, yes.  Please keep going.”

Mairon smiled, and did as he asked, taking Melkor once more into his mouth.  He pressed further inside Melkor and drew back, matching the rhythm of his hand to that of his tongue.  The cadence of Melkor’s breath grew faster, his fingers tightening in Mairon’s hair, pulling at his scalp.  Mairon shivered at the sensation, feeling his own erection throb between his legs.  He pulled his hand back, and when he pressed forward again, it was with two fingers. 

Melkor swore, tightening around Mairon’s fingers, his hips bucking him up into Mairon’s mouth.  The stroke of Mairon’s fingers inside him seemed agonizingly slow, and Melkor pressed himself down, gasping at the brush of Mairon’s fingertips deeper inside him.

“Easy,” Mairon murmured, pressing a kiss to the dripping head of Melkor’s cock. 

“I can’t,” Melkor said, an edge creeping into his voice.  “I need more.”

“Now you know how I feel all the time,” Mairon said, grinning infuriatingly at him.

“Fuck me,” Melkor said, “and I’ll never tease you again.”

“Liar,” said Mairon, his grin widening.  He trailed his tongue up the underside of Melkor’s cock, and Melkor groaned. 

“Please,” Melkor whined. 

“Don’t worry,” Mairon murmured, his breath hot on Melkor’s aching skin.  “I don’t think I can hold out much longer either.”

He scissored his fingers apart, and Melkor moaned, as much at the press of Mairon’s fingers inside him as at his words.  Very few things turned Melkor on quite as much as knowing Mairon was aroused.  Mairon worked his fingers inside Melkor, pulling him open achingly slow.  It couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes, but Melkor could’ve sworn it was an age.  He felt on fire, arousal coiling hot and aching in his gut.  Mairon’s touch was electrifying, and Melkor threw himself into it, bearing down on Mairon’s fingers and arching his back up to push into his mouth.

Mairon was three fingers deep when Melkor felt it, the brush of Mairon’s fingertips against something raw and exquisite within him.  He moaned at the touch, swearing softly, and Mairon gasped, letting Melkor’s cock fall from his mouth, his forehead resting gently on Melkor’s hip.  His hand was between his own legs, and he stroked himself languidly, matching the rhythm of his other hand pressing into Melkor.  He pressed up again, fingers brushing that same spot, and Melkor swore again, loudly.  The third time, his hand tightened in Mairon’s hair, and he pulled gently, relishing the filthy moan that spilled from Mairon’s lips. 

“Please,” Melkor breathed, feeling the heat of Mairon’s breath against his skin.  “Mairon, I can’t.  I need—oh, God.”  His back arched off the couch as Mairon pressed inside him again, fingertips dragging expertly over the raw nerves inside him.  He withdrew then, and Melkor moaned at the loss, feeling open and vulnerable and raw.  Mairon leaned forward, one hand on his own cock, the other pushing up against the underside of Melkor’s thigh.  Melkor bent his knee, repositioning himself, shivering as he felt Mairon’s cock brush against him. 

Mairon pressed inside him, slow and gentle, and Melkor swore, hooking his leg around the back of Mairon’s thigh and pulling him forward.  He cried out as Mairon sank deeper into him, back arching, and Mairon’s hand was on Melkor’s arm, fingertips digging into Melkor’s skin as he tried to slow himself down.

“Jesus,” Mairon gasped, dragging in a shuddering breath.  “And you call me impatient.”

“Call me anything you want,” Melkor said, pulling at Mairon’s hips.  “Just fuck me.”

And Mairon did, with slow, steady thrusts that nevertheless made Melkor gasp as Mairon pushed deeper inside him.  Melkor’s calf pressed against the back of Mairon’s leg, pulling him closer, and Mairon sank to the hilt inside him, swearing softly as Melkor moaned.  Melkor’s hands were at Mairon’s hips, and he slid his palms around the curve of Mairon’s ass, urging him closer, faster, deeper.  Mairon was happy to oblige, his thrusts grow harder, less measured at he went.  He could feel Melkor’s nails digging into his skin, see the way Melkor’s breaths grew shallower, quicker, more desperate. 

“Oh God, Mai,” he said, voice shaking.  “Please.”  He didn’t know what he was asking for, only felt the urgency of his own need, hot and aching and desperate.  “Please,” he said again, voice breaking.  Mairon slid his hand to Melkor’s thigh, pushing it back, angling Melkor’s hips.  “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, as Mairon thrust inside him, the angle different and deeper and utterly divine, the head of Mairon’s cock sliding against the raw, aching nerves within. 

Mairon thrust in again, and Melkor’s back arched, pushing him hard into Mairon’s touch.  “God, yes,” he said, hands stroking hard over Mairon’s skin.  “Oh, God.  Please, Mai.”  Mairon’s breath was ragged, his thrusts losing any sense of rhythm or control, desire stoked higher by the sound of Melkor’s need.  Melkor’s words lost any sense of coherency, devolving into a litany of profanity and nonsensical pleading, urging Mairon on.  

Mairon was desperate and close, and he pushed back against Melkor’s thigh, shifting his hips and thrusting into him hard and fast until Melkor came, eyes closed, Mairon’s name drawn in a scream from his lips.  Mairon followed him fast, coming deep inside Melkor with a cry of pleasure.  He fell forward, caching himself with a hand on Melkor’s chest, head bowed as he dragged in breath after ragged breath.

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing slowly returning to normal.  Then Mairon pulled back, sliding free of Mairon with a soft groan.  He took Melkor’s shirt from the back of the couch and wiped the mess of Melkor’s climax from his belly, tossing the shirt onto the floor.  Melkor pulled him down to lay beside him on the couch, sliding his arm under Mairon’s shoulders and pulling him close.  He brushed the hair out of Mairon’s face and kissed him, slow and deep and sated. 

“God, I have the best ideas,” he said, grinning. 

Mairon laughed and kissed him again.  “I take it you liked that.”

“Jesus,” Melkor said, stroking his thumb over Mairon’s cheek.  “Wasn’t I loud enough?”

“Ask your neighbors,” Mairon said.  Melkor laughed, and kissed him again. 

“Thank you,” he said, fingers stroking gently through Mairon’s hair, “for humoring me.”

“Yeah,” Mairon said, rolling his eyes.  “It was a huge sacrifice for me, let me tell you.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Melkor said, grinning.

Mairon splayed his fingers against Melkor’s chest and laid his cheek against the curve of Melkor’s shoulder.  “Seriously, though,” he said, trailing his fingertips over Melkor’s skin.  “It was good?”

“Good?” Melkor repeated, incredulous.  “Jesus, Mai.  I think people in the fuckin’ lobby heard me come.”

Mairon laughed.  “Glad you liked it,” he said, kissing Melkor’s neck.

“I did,” Melkor said.  “I mean, I don’t know if I’d want to do it all the time, but—”

“Me either,” Mairon said.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong.  It was really fucking hot, but—well, you know.”

“What?”

Mairon’s lips trailed higher, tracing the curve of Melkor’s jaw and coming to rest against his ear.  “I really, really like it when you fuck me,” he murmured, the brush of his fingertips teasing Melkor’s raw nerves. 

“Jesus,” Melkor said, shuddering.  “Gimme a couple minutes to recover, dude.”

“Sure,” said Mairon, but he shimmied closer, pressing himself to Melkor’s side.  “But when you’re ready,” he said, leaving the rest unsaid.

Melkor cupped Mairon’s cheek, stroking his cheek.  “Anything you want,” he breathed, and kissed him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


	15. Better Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Mairon's first Thanksgiving at Utumno, and if he thinks he's spending it alone, he's got another thing coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically the official formation of the awful office quartet. Unadulterated fluff for your holiday enjoyment. Happy Thanksgiving!

Mairon walked through the deserted lobby, savoring a hush that could only be enjoyed before eight a.m.  He scrolled through his email, frowning slightly at the work that had managed to pile up since he had last looked at the application, mere hours before.  His feet carried him along the familiar path to the elevator, his eyes focused on the screen rather than the floor before him.

“Morning,” said Thuringwethil, looming suddenly in his periphery.  Mairon jumped, startled.  “Sorry,” she said, grinning.  “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” he said.  “I just didn’t expect anyone to be here this early.”

“What, you think you’re the only one who likes an early start?”

“Apparently not,” he said.

“Getting in some last minute work, huh?”

“Last minute?”

“Before tomorrow,” she said.

Mairon’s brow furrowed.  “Tomorrow?”

“Um,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him.  “Thanksgiving?”

“Thanksgiving,” he said, his eyes widening.  “Oh, man.  Is that tomorrow?”

“Last time I checked.”

“No wonder the R&D people were so huffy about me scheduling a meeting on Friday.”

“Yeah, that’d do it.”

“Oops.”

She snorted.  “So, no big plans for the holiday?”

“I mean,” he said, “if the weather cooperates, I want to schedule a flight test for the new coding stuff.”

“It’s a holiday,” she pointed out.  “No one will be here.”

“I can handle it,” he said.

She crossed her arms and frowned.  “You don’t have dinner plans?  Nothing with your family, or…”

An image of last year’s Thanksgiving table came unbidden to Mairon’s mind, and he felt a treacherous stab of longing as he remembered the smell of dinner cooking in Yavanna’s kitchen.  Still, he kept his face carefully neutral as he said, “I don’t have any plans.”

“You do now,” Thuringwethil said decisively.  “Reschedule your flight test.”

“I—”he started, but she was too fast.

“If you want to bring something,” she said, “bring wine.  I got a couple bottles already, but knowing the dickheads on the guest list, we might run out.”

“Uh,” he said, unsure if she was joking.

“Yes,” she said, grinning at his uncertainty, “I’m talking about Melkor and Gothmog.  Better be prepared to see your boss at least a little drunk.  Although, we banned getting outright shitfaced after the year they tried to deepfry a turkey in the house.”

“You guys spend Thanksgiving together?” Mairon asked, still trying to wrap his head around that last sentence.

“Every year,” Thuringwethil said.  “It’s not as bad as I probably just made it sound.  Well, usually.  We’ll see about this year.”

“Thuringwethil,” he said.  “It’s really nice of you to invite me—”

“I know,” she said, grinning.  “I’ll pick you up at noon.”

“I—”

“On the dot,” she said, and walked away before he could respond. 

*****

At noon on the dot, Mairon saw Thuringwethil’s car pull up to the curb outside his apartment.  He pushed open the front door and headed out to meet her, shifting his grip on the wine in his hand to open the door.  “I didn’t know what everyone liked,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat and setting both bottles between his feet, “so I got a red and a white.”

“I’m probably going to need both by the time dinner rolls around,” she said. 

“Yeah?” he said, unsure what else to say.  He buckled his seatbelt, and she pulled away from the curb.

“I’ve been in a house with Melkor and Gothmog since eight a.m.,” she said by way of explanation.

“That’s an early start,” Mairon said.

“Gothmog started even earlier.  Serves him right, though.  I told him that turkey was way too big.”

“Gothmog’s cooking?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, as though surprised he had asked.  “Gothmog always cooks.”

“Huh,” Mairon said, trying to reconcile this new information with the image of Gothmog he had formed over the few months since they had met.

Thuringwethil glanced at him.  “Have you not had Gothmog’s cooking yet?”

“Not that I know of,” Mairon said.

“Oh, man,” she said.  “This is such a good meal to be your first Gothmog cooking experience.  Thanksgiving is his favorite.  He goes all out.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said, stretching out his hand over the vent to warm his fingers.  “I’m starving.”

“So you’re doing the ‘don’t eat anything until dinner’ strategy for Thanksgiving, huh?”

“I mean, not on purpose.”  She raised an eyebrow at him.  “I mean, it was more ‘I was working and forgot to eat’ than a real, thought-out strategy.”

“How do you forget to eat?  Like, how is that possible?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I just do.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, shaking her head.  “Don’t starve to death.  Melkor’s head might explode.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He loves you,” Thuringwethil said, and Mairon felt an odd flutter in his chest that he couldn’t immediately identify.  “I mean, you’re half his conversation topics anymore.  He’s convinced you’re the thing that’s going to put Utumno on top.”

“No pressure,” Mairon said.

She laughed.  “I don’t think you’d be in this business if you didn’t like a little pressure.”

“I wouldn’t say I _like_ it.”

“You sure as hell handle it well.  I mean, I’ve seen a lot of engineers go through that place in the last couple years, but I’ve never seen anyone get shit done as efficiently as you.  Seriously, Mairon.  I don’t know how you do it.”

“The time I save by forgetting to eat breakfast,” he said.  “Makes all the difference.”

She laughed and pulled the car up to the curb in front of a tall, mirror-windowed building.  “This is us,” she said, and killed the engine.

“So,” said Mairon, looking up at the glass and steel monstrosity.  “This is Melkor’s place.”

“Tacky as hell,” she said.  “Just like him.”

Mairon laughed and shook his head.  “I shouldn’t laugh,” he said, as he followed Thuringwethil into the building. 

“Yeah, you should,” she said, leading him through the lobby to the elevator.  “It was funny.”  She pressed the button for the top floor, and the elevator began to ascend.  It took only a few seconds for the elevator to reach the destination, and they stepped out into a very short hallway with only one door.  The sound of shouting came from inside, muffled by the heavy front door, and Mairon raised his eyebrows, wondering what was going on.

“Welcome to the madhouse,” Thuringwethil said, rolling her eyes.  She opened the door, and Mairon was hit by a wall of light and sound and scent.  He walked over the threshold and looked around with interest.  They were in a largely unfurnished entryway, but Mairon could see beyond to an expansive living room dominated by the biggest television he had ever seen.  There was a football game on the screen, showing a slow-motion replay of a touchdown.  Melkor was kneeling on the cushions, his hands on the back of the couch, looking toward the doorway to the kitchen, where Gothmog stood. 

“Suck it, dickhead!” Melkor yelled, cackling and pointing at the screen.

“Fuck you,” Gothmog said, turning on his heel and retreating into the kitchen.

“Didn’t know they cared so much about football,” Mairon said, hanging his coat on a hook. 

Thuringwethil rolled her eyes.  “They’ve got money on it,” she said, walking into the living room.  “Hey!” she said, shouting to be heard.  “What did I say about volume?”

“My house,” Melkor said.

“My goddamn eardrums,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, grinning.  “Your age, you’re probably going to lose your hearing soon anyway.”

“Eat me,” she said.

“I’ve never been the unwilling party on that front.”

She lobbed her keys at his head, and he ducked out of the way, laughing.  “Put those back in my bag before they get lost,” she said, and went into the kitchen. 

“Here,” Melkor said, and tossed them to Mairon.  “Nice catch,” he added, nodding approvingly. 

“Lucky catch,” Mairon corrected, walking the keys back to the entryway and putting them in Thuringwethil’s bag. 

“You seem to have a lot of that, huh?”

Mairon shrugged, noncommittal.  “Your place is huge,” he said, looking around. 

“Insert joke about how he’s compensating for something,” Thuringwethil said, returning from the kitchen with a glass of wine in each hand.  She handed one to Mairon and flashed a satisfied grin to Melkor.

“Wanna confirm that?” Melkor asked, running a hand over his groin.

“Not with twelve layers of gloves and a pane of bulletproof glass,” she said.

“Ouch.”

“No offense,” she added, and wandered back toward the kitchen.

“Harpy,” he said, though he kept his voice low so she couldn’t hear.  He turned and flopped down on the couch.  “You can sit down, you know,” he said, looking at Mairon over his shoulder.

“I feel like I should be helping with something,” Mairon said, looking toward the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about it,” Melkor said.  “Gothmog’s almost done anyway, and it’s Thil’s turn to set the table.”

“Is not,” she called.

“Well,” Melkor amended, “technically it’s mine, but Thil doesn’t trust me to do it.”

“Why not?” Mairon asked.

“Because he does a shit-ass job,” she said, passing by the doorway with a stack of plates in her hands. 

“Why do I get the feeling that’s on purpose?” Mairon asked.

“Dude,” Melkor said, “don’t give it away.”

“Sorry,” Mairon said, and grinned.  He leaned on the back of the couch, and Melkor reached up to take the glass from his hand.

“So,” said Melkor, taking a huge mouthful of wine before handing the glass back to Mairon.  “Who’s your team?”

“My what?”

“Team,” Melkor, waving a hand at the TV.

“Oh,” Mairon said, glancing at the game.  “I don’t really follow it.”

“But if you had to pick,” Melkor said.

“You’re not obligated to answer,” Thuringwethil interjected from the kitchen.

“It’s a fair question,” Melkor said.

“Not from you, it isn’t.”

“I’m your boss,” said Melkor, grinning in what he thought was an ingratiating manner at Mairon.

“And I’m your lawyer,” Thuringwethil said, pointing at them with the silverware in her hand.  “I’m advising you not to answer.”

“Think carefully about your answer,” Gothmog said, appearing in Mairon’s field of vision for the first time.  “One of us has your food.”

“And one of us,” Melkor said, “is about to win a lot of money.”

“I expressly forbid any betting this year,” Thuringwethil said testily.

“This is my house,” Melkor protested.  Thuringwethil gave him a withering look, and Melkor leaned close to Mairon, whispering conspiratorially.  “It’s just a friendly bet,” he said, grinning slyly.  “Ten grand on the outcome of the game.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Mairon sputtered incredulously.

“Don’t worry,” Gothmog said blithely.  “Melkor’s lost three years running.”

“This is my year,” Melkor said confidently.  “Mark my words, Gothmog, your end of the year bonus will be mine.”  They watched as, on the screen, the wrong team scored a touchdown.  “Fuck,” said Melkor sourly. 

Mairon wandered back into the kitchen, which seemed to be safer territory.  “So,” said Thuringwethil, turning on the oven light to eye the roasting turkey inside.  “I take it the Smiths aren’t big holiday people?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, shrugging.

She nodded sagely, reaching for the oven mitts.  “Not a good topic?” she said, opening the oven door.

“It’s fine,” he said, breathing in the aroma of turkey and watching as she checked the timer.  “It’s just that I wouldn’t know.”

Thuringwethil swept the turkey from the oven and placed it on the island, closing the door expertly with her foot.  She turned to face him, slowly taking the oven mitts from her hands.  “Can I ask why not?”

He shrugged.  “Never knew my parents,” he said indifferently.  “No idea who or where they are.  I was raised by the state.  Not really much in the way of Thanksgiving traditions there.”

She nodded.  “Well,” she said slowly, “it’s never too late to start a new one.”  She smiled faintly before brushing past him and leaning out into the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.  “Hey assholes,” she called over the clamor from the television.  “Come help me carry food to the table or you aren’t getting any.”

***

They ate dinner at a long, polished dining room table piled high with more food than they could’ve possibly eaten in a week.  Gothmog had made a twenty pound turkey and about a dozen sides, and Mairon tried them all, eating until he could barely move. 

“What’d I tell you about Gothmog’s cooking?” Thuringwethil said, grinning at Mairon.

“You weren’t kidding,” Mairon said, laying a hand on his stomach.

“Hope you left room for desert,” Melkor said.  “There’s—how many pies did you make?” he asked, the last part directed at Gothmog. 

“Five,” Gothmog said.  “Well, five kinds.  Two of each.”

“Jesus,” Mairon said.

“It’s his favorite holiday,” Melkor said. 

“Damn straight it is,” Gothmog said. 

“Which is weird,” Melkor said.

“Didn’t hear you complaining when you were shoveling food into your face.”

“I can’t complain too much about your weird-ass opinions when they benefit me.  Now speaking of pie—”

“Uh-uh,” Thuringwethil said.  “Not until we cleanup.”

“Aw, come on,” he said.  “Have I not contributed enough today?”

“You have contributed exactly nothing.”

“My house,” he said, throwing his arms wide and giving her an incredulous look. 

“Which I cleaned, and Gothmog used to cook food.”

“That I bought,” Melkor pointed out.

“Not yet you didn’t,” Gothmog said.

“I’ll take it out of my winnings.”

“You mean add it to mine.”

“If money changes hands for anything other than food,” Thuringwethil said, “I’ll murder you both.”  She stood up from the table and picked up her plate.  “Get moving,” she said, shooting a menacing look at Melkor.

“See how she talks to me?” Melkor complained, giving Mairon an aggrieved look.  “In my own house.”  Still, he stood up and picked up his plate. 

Mairon did the same, following him out into the kitchen.  “Thanks for having me,” Mairon said, sliding his and Melkor’s plates into the dishwasher and heading back to the dining room to get the leftovers. 

“Please,” Melkor said, rolling his eyes.  “What were we gonna do, let you spend your holiday alone?” 

“I mean, you could have.”

“You ever spent a holiday alone?” 

“No,” Mairon said. 

“Yeah,” Melkor said, gathering up utensils from the table, “well I have, and so have Gothmog and Thil.  It sucks.”

“I wasn’t looking forward to it.”

“Well, now you don’t have to worry about it,” Melkor said, heading for the kitchen with utensils in both hands.  “For next time, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Mairon said, following him into the next room.

“I mean,” Melkor said, pulling out the bottom drawer of the dishwasher, “don’t get me wrong.  If you want to work on a holiday, I’m not gonna stop you.  Hell, schedule a flight test for Christmas day if you want.  I like the initiative, to tell you the truth.  Just be done by dinnertime.”

“Dinnertime?” Mairon said.

“We usually do presents Christmas Eve,” Thuringwethil said, putting leftovers into the fridge.  “So schedule around that, too.”

“Or just, you know,” said Gothmog, fetching a knife from the drawer.  “Don’t work on holidays.”

“Shut up, Gothmog,” Melkor said, shooting him a look.  “If the kid wants to work, then let him work.”

“You can tell him to fuck off,” Gothmog said to Mairon.

“I’d encourage it, actually,” Thuringwethil said.  “Now finish loading the dishwasher so we can eat dessert.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


	16. All I Want for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas at Angband, which means tacky parties and an all-out race for gift-giving supremacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure, unadulterated fluff. Totally silly, devoid of any substance. Hope you enjoy :)

                  
                “Who died?” asked Gothmog, slouching into Melkor’s office. 

                “What?  No one,” Melkor said, frowning at him. 

                “Then why in God’s name are we here at eight a.m.?”

                “Because, you lazy ass,” said Melkor, “some people like to get an early start.”

                “Some people,” said Thuringwethil, flipping through a notepad balanced on her knees.  “Not you.”

                “Uh, I’m here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

                “Yes,” she said.  “But are you working?”

                “What do you call this?”

                “Leveraging your unbalanced end of the corporate power dynamic to hold your friends hostage in your office at eight a.m.?”

                “And you have the nerve to call me a conspiracy theorist.”

                “You literally have every episode of _Finding Bigfoot_ on your DVR.”

                “DVR,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.  “What is this, the stone age?  It’s on Netflix now, you heathen.  And anyway, the noble sasquatch is a cryptid, not a conspiracy theory.”

                “Yeah, Thil,” said Gothmog, grinning. 

                She narrowed her eyes at him.  “I expect better from you, you know.”

                “Why?”

                Melkor cackled, and Thuringwethil rolled her eyes.  “I have actual work to do, you know.  So if you’ll excuse me—”

                “Not yet,” Melkor said.  “We’re short one person.”

                “Where is Mairon, anyway?” asked Gothmog looking around.

                “I don’t know,” said Melkor, checking the time.  “I told him eight o’clock.  I even—”

                “I’m here,” Mairon said, half-jogging into the office and up to Melkor’s desk.  He picked up the tall paper cup on the desk and inhaled dramatically, sighing contentedly. 

                “Bribed him,” Melkor finished, rolling his eyes.  He watched as Mairon raised the cup to his lips and began to drink.  “Jesus,” he said, raising an eyebrow.  “Did you sleep at all?”

                Mairon held up one index finger, tipped back his head, and drained the cup.  “What do you think?” he said, taking a breath at last.

                “I think you’re insane.”

                “Insanely dedicated,” Mairon corrected.

                “I think I had it right the first time.”

                “Tick tock,” said Thuringwethil, tapping her watch.  “I’ve got shit to do that doesn’t involve watching my two dumbass friends flirt like a couple of gross teenagers.”

                “If this is your idea of flirting,” said Melkor, “then no wonder you’re still single.”  Thuringwethil set her notebook aside and stood up, stalking menacingly toward Melkor.  “I take it back,” he said quickly, rolling his desk chair back into the corner.  “I take it back!”

                “Easy, killer,” said Gothmog, grinning and patting her arm.  “Responding to him is only going to make this fake meeting run longer.”

                She gave Gothmog a sour look and turned to Melkor, glaring.  “Hurry up, asshole,” she said, grudgingly reigning herself in and sitting back down on the couch.

                Melkor rolled his chair back to the desk and grinned, steepling his fingers and affecting what he thought was a dignified look.  “I’ve called you all here this morning,” he said, looking around at them, “to discuss something very important.  Something crucial to the future of Angband.”

                “The break-in investigation?” Gothmog suggested.

                “No.”

                “The new project development blitz,” Mairon said.

                Melkor shook his head.

                “Spit it out,” Thuringwethil said, “before I murder you.”

                “I’m talking,” said Melkor, as though it should’ve been obvious, “about the company Christmas party.”

                “For fuck’s sake,” said Gothmog, rolling his eyes.

                “Better make your pitch quick,” Mairon said, glancing at Thuringwethil.  “Thil’s doing her ‘count to ten and decide whether the satisfaction of murdering you is worth the jail time’ thing.”

                “How can you tell?” Melkor asked, looking at her with interest.

                “Trust me,” said Mairon.  “I’ve seen it enough to know.”

                “Melkor,” she said, sounding exasperated, “I realize that you think it’s hilarious to waste our time—”

                “It’s not a waste of time,” he said.  “We’ve had kind of a rough year here, guys—not just us, but the whole company.  An end-of-the-year party is a morale booster.  We need that.”

                “You know,” said Gothmog thoughtfully, “that’s not a bad point.

                “Don’t encourage him,” Thuringwethil said.

                “Gothmog’s right,” said Mairon.  “We’ve had a lot of delays in the face of court proceedings, and the break-in thing really set us back, too.  If we want to turn things around in the new year, people could use a boost.”

                “Mairon Smith, agreeing to a party,” she said, shaking her head.  “Damn, that dick must be good.”

                “Oh, it is,” he said, grinning at her.  “But I’m agreeing on the merit of his argument, not on the merit of his dick.”

                “Which means my argument must be pretty fucking rad,” said Melkor, “because my dick—”

                “If I hear another word about your dick,” said Thuringwethil, “you’re going to regret it.”

                There was a moment of silence in which Melkor looked at Thuringwethil, mouth half-open, internally debating the need to have the last word versus how serious her threat was.  Thuringwethil stared him down, fingers curling into a fist.  Melkor grinned.  “Moving on,” he said.

                “Smart choice,” she said.

                “Okay,” said Melkor.  “So, I was thinking we should just divvy up the to-do list.  You know, divide and conquer.”

                “Or,” said Thuringwethil, “you could just plan it since you’re so hellbent on having it.”

                “Some of us have other things to do, Thil.  You know—like work.”

                “Again,” she said.  “I think you need to exclude yourself from the concept of ‘some of us’ in this example.”

                “Hey, lawyer lady.  Do a quick cost-benefit analysis, would you?  You can make me do it all and also have to listen to me bitch about it, or you can just suck it up and take charge of the decorations.”

                She considered it for a moment.  “Fine,” she said, crossing her arms.  “But I get to pick the theme.”

                “Fine,” said Melkor.  “But the dress code is ugly sweater, or you’re getting turned away at the door.”

                “As long as I’m exempted.”

                “Nope.”

                “Then no dice.”

                “She’ll come around,” he said, waving a hand at her dismissively and turning away.  “Gothmog, you’re in charge of food.”

                “Obviously.”

                “Pick something good.”

                “What are you doing, pray tell?” asked Thuringwethil.

                “I’m in charge of the entertainment,” said Melkor.  “Since, you know, I’m the only one with a decent taste in that music.”  There was a chorus of vehement disagreement from the other three, which Melkor gleefully ignored.  “Right,” he said, waving at them to keep quiet.  “So we’ve got food, decorations, and music-slash-games covered.  Do we need anything else?”

                “Are you doing gifts?” Gothmog asked.  “Something at the door?  Like a thank you for the staff.”

                “They’re getting a party,” said Melkor.  “Not to mention continued employment.  They should be falling at my goddamn feet in gratitude.”

                “I swear to God you were a third-world dictator in a past life,” said Thuringwethil. 

                “I mean, if Angband is a world unto itself, that’s basically what I am now.”

                “What am I doing?” Mairon asked, as Thuringwethil made a noise of disgust.

                “Uh,” said Melkor, nonplussed, “standing here?”

                “No, you ass.  For the party.”

                “Oh, right.  You just show up.”

                “That’s it?’

                “Well, you have to wear an ugly sweater, but yeah.  That’s it.”

                “Hang on,” said Thuringwethil.  “Gothmog has to coordinate catering, I have to handle decorations, and Mairon just has to walk through the goddamn door?”

                “Good listening skills, Thil.”

                “That sounds fair,” she said, rolling her eyes.

                “Fair, my ass,” said Melkor.  “It’s realistic.  I gave each of you a job I thought you could probably handle without fucking it up.”

                “Well,” said Gothmog, “seeing as how dipshit here can barely manage to feed himself once a day, showing up at a party on time is probably the most he can handle.”

                “You guys are idiots,” said Thuringwethil.  “Mairon lives for task completion.  If you wanted this shit done efficiently, you should’ve assigned it all to him.  It would’ve been done by the end of the week.”

                “She’s right, you know,” said Mairon. 

                “Damn it,” said Melkor.

                “Too late now,” said Mairon.  “All assignments are final.”

                “Says who?”

                “Me,” said Mairon.  “Now, are we done?  I have a meeting in five minutes.”

                “Go ahead,” said Melkor.

                “Thanks, babe,” he said, giving Melkor a winning smile.  He turned on his heel and sauntered out of the office, disappearing around the corner.

                “God, you’re easily manipulated,” said Gothmog.

                “Worth it,” said Melkor.

                “I’ll take your word for it,” said Gothmog.  He pushed himself up off the couch and stretched.

                “Are we done?” Thuringwethil asked.

                “Yeah,” said Melkor.  “But can I talk to you for a sec?”

                “I’ll catch you guys later,” said Gothmog, and headed for his own office.

                “What do you want?” Thuringwethil asked, gathering up her things.

                “Advice.”

                “Cut your hair,” she said, shoving things into her bag.  “Burn that hoodie.  Stop threatening to bitch slap underlings who piss you off.”

                “About Christmas, you jerk.”

                “What about it?”

                “I don’t know what to get Mairon.”

                “Honey,” she said, “I love meddling in other people’s business as much as the next guy, but I am not going to be responsible for your boyfriend’s Christmas present.”

                “But—”

                “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head.  “You wanted a relationship.  Now you have to do the work.”

                “Look,” he said, annoyed, “it’s not that I want you to tell me what to get.  It’s—“He sighed, running a hand through his hair.  “Listen, Thil.  Mairon has had kind of a shitty year, in case you forgot, and since a solid ninety percent of that is on me, I want to get him something nice.  If anyone deserves that, it’s him.”

                “Wow,” said Thuringwethil, looking up at him and shaking her head.  “That’s, uh, surprisingly nice of you.  Thoughtful, even.”

                “Do you have to sound so surprised?”

                “Yes.”

                He rolled his eyes.  “Are you going to help me or not?”

                She considered him for a moment.  “Look,” she said after a moment.  “I’m not going to tell you what you should get Mairon for Christmas because honestly, I don’t know.  But I’ll say this.  The best gifts are things you know someone wants or needs, but they won’t buy it for themselves.”

                “Uh-huh,” said Melkor, rubbing a hand over his chin.

                “Good advice, huh?”

                “Fuck no.  It’s vague and unhelpful.”

                “Well,” she said, standing up, “that’s all I’ve got.  Take it or leave it.”

                He groaned.  “On second thought, let’s cancel Christmas this year.”

                He hefted her bag onto her shoulder and walked over to him.  “Relax, dummy,” she said.  “You’ve always been pretty good at presents.  Don’t psych yourself out.”

                “Do you mean that?”  She nodded.  “Can I get that in writing?”  Thuringwethil patted his arm with one hand, and flipped him off with the other.  Then she brushed past him and headed out the door.  Melkor stood there for a moment, thinking, but no grand ideas presented themselves.  He groaned, buried his face in his hands, and headed out into the hall, hoping a walk would clear his head.

*****

                “Hey,” said Mairon, leaning around Gothmog half-open office door.  “Got a minute?”

                “Sure,” said Gothmog, jotting down a note and pushing himself back in his chair.  “What’s up?”

                “So I’ve been brainstorming Melkor’s Christmas present,” said Mairon, coming inside and shutting the door behind him. 

                “That’s a big task,” Gothmog said, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head.  “First Christmas officially together, or whatever.”

                “Tell me about it,” Mairon said.

                “Have you figured out what to get him?”

                “I think so,” Mairon said, “but I need a little help.”

                “What are you thinking?”  Mairon told him, and Gothmog laughed, rubbing his hands together in excitement.  “Oh man,” he said, grinning gleefully.  “That’s some good shit, dude.”

                “I thought so,” said Mairon, grinning in return.  “So, will you help me out?”

                “The nice, holiday-spirit part of me says yes,” he said.  “The regular, greedy son-of-a-bitch part of me says, ‘what’s in it for me’?”

                “I’ll make it a joint present,” Mairon said.

                “Hell yeah,” Gothmog said.  “Count me in.”

                “I thought that might convince you,” said Mairon, nodding in satisfaction.  “Come on,” he said, opening the door and standing in the doorway.  “I’ve got some stuff in the warehouse I want you to take a look at.”

*****

                “Got a minute?” Melkor asked, standing in the doorway of Thuringwethil’s office. 

                “No,” she said, staring at the packet of papers in her hand.

                “I have coffee,” he said, holding up the paper cup in his hand.    

                “Gimme,” she said, holding out her hand.  He crossed distance to her desk and put the cup in her hand.  “You’re getting pretty good at the whole bribery thing,” she said, taking a drink.

                “Please,” he said, rolling his eyes.  “I spend at least half an hour a day trying to coax Mairon to quit working.  I’m a fuckin’ pro.”

                She laughed.  “What’s up?”

                “I need your help with something.”

                “What is it?”

                “It’s Mairon’s Christmas present.”

                “Jesus, dude,” she said.  “I swear we just had this conversation.”

                “Yeah, but this time I know what I want to get him.”

                “I swear to God, Melkor, if you say anything about a coupon book of sexual favors—”

                “Give me a little credit, Thil,” he said, mentally crossing that off the alternatives list.  “I figured out the perfect gift.  I just need a little help with the execution.”

                “What are you thinking?”  He told her, and she whistled, impressed.  “Hot damn,” she said.  “That’s a good idea.”

                “Right?”  He grinned, proud and excited.  “So,” he said, “will you help me?”

                “Take me to lunch,” she said, “and I’ll make you a list.”

                “Deal,” he said, and went to get his coat.

*****

                “I got you something,” said Melkor, coming into Mairon’s office with a bag in his hand.

                “Is it five minutes of uninterrupted silence?” asked Mairon, using a red pen to strike through several paragraphs of text on the page in front of him.

                “Better than that,” said Melkor.

                “There’s nothing better than that,” said Mairon.

                “Last night Mairon would beg to differ.”

                Mairon sat back in his chair and grinned, in spite of himself.  “That was pretty good,” he admitted.

                “Hell yeah it was.  My ass is still sore.”

                “Why is _your_ ass sore?”

                “Don’t question my methods.”

                Mairon snorted, shaking his head.  “So,” he said, eyeing the bag in Melkor’s hand.

                “Your sweater,” Melkor said, setting the bag down on Melkor’s desk.

                “Sweater?” Mairon repeated, nonplussed.

                “For the party,” Melkor said.  “Which is tonight.”

                “Tonight,” Mairon said, and groaned.

                “You’re going,” Melkor said firmly.  “It was your only job.”

                “Why’d you have to assign me the hardest one?”

                “Because I live to make you miserable.”

                “Mission accomplished.”

                “Not yet,” said Melkor, and pulled the sweater from the bag, holding it to face Mairon.

                “’Ho Ho Ho’,” Mairon read, “with little pictures—oh, pictures of me.  With arrows pointing to them.”  Melkor cackled, and Mairon sat back, crossing his arms.

                “Where’s the other one?”

                “Huh?”

                “The other one,” Mairon said, nodding at the bag.

                “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

                “Yeah, you do,” said Mairon.  “You bought two ridiculous sweaters, and you showed me the more outrageous one so that when you show me the relatively less terrible one, I’ll agree to wear it.”

                “Is that right, smart guy?”

                “Dump the bag, and let’s find out.”

                “You know what I think?” said Melkor, leaning on the desk.  “I think you’re too goddamn vain to wear this sweater.  I think you’re praying I’ve got another sweater in this bag just so you don’t have to announce yourself as a ho to the whole fuckin’ party.”

                “You think I won’t wear that sweater?”

                “Hell no,” said Melkor.  “You’re too obsessed with your own image.”

                “Says the guy who edits his own Wikipedia page once a week.”

                “That’s not vanity,” said Melkor.  “That’s controlling your own branding.”

                “You’re an idiot,” said Mairon.  “Give me the sweater.”

                “I though it was too outrageous.”

                “I said, give me the sweater.”  He held out his hand, and Melkor put the sweater in it.

                “Fine,” said Melkor.  “Have it your way.”  He turned and headed for the door.  “Seven o’clock,” he said, turning back to face Mairon.  “Should I pick you up, or are you going to be here?”

                “What do you think?”

                “Don’t be late,” said Melkor, and he disappeared into the hall.

                Mairon held up the sweater, looked it over again, and set it aside, shaking his head.  Then he leaned forward and picked up the bag Melkor had left behind.  It was empty.  Mairon stared at it for a moment and then began to laugh, shaking his head.

*****

                “There you are,” said Melkor, pushing through the throng of people to where Mairon stood.       

                “Here I am,” said Mairon, grinning at him.  “Only ten minutes late.”

                “We started at seven.”

                “Really?  Damn.  I could’ve sworn you said seven-thirty.”

                “Wishful thinking,” said Melkor. 

                “No comments about my sweater?”

                “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

                “Don’t worry,” Mairon said.  “It’s not going anywhere.”

                Melkor raised an eyebrow.  “Really?”

                “You outmaneuvered me,” said Mairon.  “You earned seeing me look stupid.”

                “You do look pretty stupid,” Melkor said.

                “Don’t push it.”

                Melkor laughed.  “Come on,” he said, taking Mairon’s hand.  “Let’s get you a drink.”  They made their way to the bar, and Melkor handed Mairon a glass.  “That ought to help with the humiliation.”

                “Keep ‘em comin’,” said Mairon, and Melkor laughed again.  “Seriously though, it’s a nice party.”

                “It turned out well, huh?”

                “Not bad,” said Mairon, and he looked around.  “Seen Gothmog and Thil?”

                “Not recently,” Melkor said.  “Gothmog’s been harassing the caterer, and last I checked, Thil was bitching out a third of the legal department over canapés.”

                “Sounds about right,” said Mairon. 

                “C’mon,” said Melkor.  “I want to show you the decorations.”

                “I thought Thil was in charge of decorations,” said Mairon, following him.

                “She was,” said Melkor, “which was a mistake, to tell you the truth.  I love her, but her style is boring as hell.”

                “I’m telling her you said that.”

                “Please don’t.  My arm still hurts from the last time she hit me.”  He stopped in front of a piece of paper that had been taped to the wall.  “Here,” he said.  “I made some improvements.  Check it out.”

                “It’s mistletoe,” said Mairon, glancing at the picture.  “What, you couldn’t spring for the real thing?”

                “Look closer,” Melkor said.

                Mairon did.  “There’s—wait, those aren’t berries.  They’re—”

                “Missiles,” Melkor said, too excited to let him finish.

                “Mistletoe,” Mairon said, and rolled his eyes.  “You’re an idiot.”

                Melkor grinned.  “See, it’s funny because—”

                “If you explain that joke, I’m not kissing you.”

                “Wait, are you actually going to accept this as real mistletoe?”

                “Were you not?”

                “I mean, I got the real thing,” said Melkor, fishing it out of his pocket.  “just in case.”

                “You know you don’t need mistletoe to get me to kiss you, right?”

                “Prove it.”

                Mairon stepped closer and put his hands on Melkor’s chest.  He was very close now, and Melkor leaned down toward him, expecting a kiss.  Instead, Mairon snickered and ducked his head.  “Tease,” said Melkor.

                “Sorry,” said Mairon, grinning.  “I just noticed your sweater.”

                “Awesome, right?” he said, looking down at the slogan ‘jingle my bells’ emblazoned on his chest.  “It’s also an invitation, in case you were wondering.”

                “Gross,” said Mairon, shaking his head. 

                “Yeah, yeah,” Melkor said.  “Now, where were we?”

                “We were discussing,” said Mairon, running his hands slowly up Mairon’s chest, “the parameters required for me to kiss you.”

                “Uh-huh,” said Melkor, leaning into the touch.  “And where did we land on that one?”

                Mairon smiled, and patted Melkor’s cheek.  Then he turned and strode back through the crowd, leaving Melkor behind, momentarily baffled.  Then he hurried to follow, pushing employees out of the way, keeping an eye on Mairon, his red hair easy to see through the crowd.  He followed Mairon out into the hall and found that he had lost him.  He looked up and down the hall, at a loss until he heard the stairwell door click shut.  He headed for the door, pushing it open and looking around.

                Mairon was on him almost immediately, pushing him back against the wall and kissing him.  “Jesus,” Melkor said, breathing hard, holding Mairon’s face in his hands.  “I thought you were gonna leave me hanging.”

                “Oh, honey,” said Mairon, turning his head to kiss Melkor’s palm, “I doubt you’re doing much hanging right now.”  He ran his hand down Melkor’s chest and squeezed at the bulge in his pants.

                “Fuck,” Melkor said, laying his head on Mairon’s shoulder. 

                “Maybe later,” Mairon said, kissing the top of his head.

                “Later as in, like, five minutes?”

                “I don’t know,” said Mairon.  “I just got here, and—”

                “You didn’t even want to come.”

                “I know, but it’s my first night off in like, a month—”

                “I know,” said Melkor, kissing his neck.

                “At least let me get something to eat.”  Melkor raised his head and opened his mouth.  “Don’t even,” Mairon said.  Melkor grinned, but he said nothing.  “Half hour,” Mairon said.  “Tops.”

                “You’re killing me,” Melkor said.  “You know that, right?”

                “God, I hope not.  I’ve got plans for you later.”

                “Not helping.”

                The music from the hall got suddenly louder, and the sound of singing drifted toward them.  “Is that Gothmog?” Mairon asked, wrinkling his nose.

                “Karaoke,” said Melkor.  “He was pretty stoked about it.”

                “This I’ve got to see,” said Mairon, rubbing his hands together.  “Okay.  Get me something to eat, put a drink in my hand, and let me watch Gothmog make a fool of himself.  Then you can take me home.”

                “How do you manage to make those particular sentences sound like a privilege?”

                “This,” said Mairon, running a hand down his torso and grinning.

                “Fair enough,” said Melkor.  He tilted Mairon’s chin and kissed him on the lips.  “Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath.  “Let’s go test my self-control.”

*****

                The ringing of Melkor’s phone woke him from a pleasant, half-sleeping haze, and he groaned, squinting irritably at the clock.  Eight-thirty, he saw, and swore.  He fumbled his phone off the bedside table and thumbed the ‘accept’ button, holding the phone to his ear.  “No,” he growled, closing his eyes and rolling onto his side.

                “No, what?” said Mairon.

                “Everything,” Melkor said.  “Fuck.”

                “Don’t be such a grouch,” said Mairon.  “It’s eight-thirty.”

                “A.M.,” said Melkor.

                “You’ve been at work around this time every day this week.”

                “Yeah,” said Melkor, “but it’s Sunday.”

                “It’s Christmas Eve.”

                “Irrelevant,” said Melkor.

                “Four syllable words mean you’re more awake than you want to admit.”

                “Fuck you.”

                “Maybe later.”

                “Don’t tease.”

                “Oh, I would never.”

                Melkor yawned and stretched, rolling onto his back.  “Are you gonna tell me why the hell you think it’s okay to wake me up at ass-o’clock on a holiday?”

                “It’s about your present.”

                Melkor pushed himself up onto his elbow, suddenly interested.  “I’m listening.”

                “I know we usually do gift exchange in the evening, at Thil’s, but yours…well, I think you’re gonna want it earlier.”

                “Now you’re talking,” said Melkor.

                “Would you be opposed to doing presents this morning?”

                “Sounds good to me,” said Melkor.

                “How long do you need to get yours together?”

                “Two minutes.”

                “Okay,” said Mairon.  “Pick me up in half an hour.”

*****

                “Where are we going?” Melkor asked.  They’d been driving for fifteen minutes, and though the path felt vaguely familiar, he couldn’t quite place where they were headed.

                “You’ll see,” said Mairon.  “Turn right at the light.”

                “I didn’t bring your present,” said Melkor, glancing at Gothmog in the rearview mirror.  “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

                “It’s cool,” said Gothmog.  “I didn’t bring yours either.”

                “You know, I had some theories on what you might be getting me, but I don’t have any on the list that would require Gothmog.”

                “I couldn’t have done it without Gothmog,” said Mairon.  Both Gothmog and Melkor gave him a look.  “Alright,” he amended, “but it would’ve been way harder.  Which is why Gothmog gets to share your present.”

                “Cheapskate,” said Melkor mildly.  “Combining presents.”  He shook his head.

                “Trust me,” said Mairon.  “You’re gonna be happy to have him.  Turn left.”

                Melkor did, and suddenly recognized where they were.  He drove slowly up a gravel path and pulled up to the gate.  Mairon undid his seatbelt and jumped out, punching a code into the keypad at the deserted guard booth.  The gate retracted, and Melkor waited for Mairon to get back in before he drove through.

                “This is our warehouse,” said Melkor.

                “Look at you, smart boy,” said Gothmog, and Melkor cursed the awkward angle that prevented him from punching his best friend.

                “I don’t think you can give me something I own as a gift,” said Melkor.

                “You might want to reserve judgement on that one,” said Gothmog.

                Melkor pulled the car up to a wide gravel cul-de-sac and killed the engine.  “Come on,” said Mairon, and got out of the car.  He walked up to the door of the building and turned back to face them, waiting.  Melkor and Gothmog followed and stood before him, waiting.  “This building,” said Mairon, patting his hand fondly against the door, “is our repository for old and discontinued projects.  We’ve got prototypes from various developmental stages, abandoned designs, and a bunch of test craft that failed or crashed or what have you.”

                “This sounds like work stuff,” said Melkor suspiciously.

                “It is,” Mairon said.  “It’s stuff we’ve worked on in the past six years.  Stuff you worked on for three years before that.  It’s all outdated, and it’s all well past it’s utility.”

                “It’s junk,” said Gothmog.

                “For all intents and purposes,” said Mairon.  “Anyway, I had slated it to be hauled out for scrap, since we don’t need it, and it’s just taking up space.  But then I thought, you know what?  There’s a much more enjoyable way to get rid of this stuff.”

                “Oh my God,” said Melkor.  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

                Mairon pulled a ring of keys from his pocked and inserted one into the lock, pushing the door open with his free hand.  “None of this stuff is of any use to us,” he said, stepping inside and beckoning for them to follow.  “I’ve stripped out everything with any possible utility.  Whatever’s left is just scrap metal.  Which, you know, we could’ve sold, but I figured it would be more fun for everyone if I let you beat the shit out of it instead.”

                “Oh my God,” said Melkor again, staring in wonder at the heaps of old stripped-down prototypes littering the floor of the warehouse. 

                “I had Gothmog get you some implements of destruction,” said Mairon, waving at the far wall.  “I also brought in a hydraulic press, in case you want to crush anything.  And if you’re good, and there are no life-threatening injuries, I’ll set up some controlled detonations for you.”

                Melkor turned suddenly on his heel and pulled Mairon close, kissing him.  “This is…”He shook his head, at a loss.

                “I take it you like it?”

                Melkor kissed him again.  “You better just give up on presents, like, forever.  You’re not topping this.”

                “I’ll take that as a challenge,” said Mairon, grinning.

                Melkor rolled his eyes.  “Of course you will.”

                “Well?”  Mairon said, stepping back and gesturing at the junk behind them.  “Have at it.”

                “Hang on,” Melkor said.  “I haven’t given you yours yet.”

                “Delaying your chance at destruction,” said Mairon, raising an eyebrow.  “Must be good.”

                “I hope so,” said Melkor.  “Here.”  He handed Mairon a plain, white envelope.

                Mairon took it and opened it, pulling out two slips of paper.  “Plane tickets,” he said, looking them over.  He looked up at Melkor, and shook his head, looking apologetic.  “Honey,” he said, “this is really sweet, but it’s then end of the year, and things are so hectic, and if I don’t—“Melkor handed him a thick, heavy manila folder.  “What’s this?”

                “Part two,” said Melkor.  “Open it.”

                Mairon did, and he frowned, looking over the top page inside.  “These are my projects,” Mairon said, nonplussed.  “All of them.”

                “Uh-huh,” said Melkor.  “Keep looking.”

                Mairon flipped through the pages, his eyes widening.  “It’s done,” he said.  “Everything’s done.”  He looked up at Melkor.  “Everything I had projected to finish through the first week of January—”

                “Done,” said Melkor.  “All of it.”

                Mairon looked at him, mouth half-open in wonder.  “How?” was all he could manage.

                “A couple threats,” said Melkor, “and a shitload of overtime.”  He shrugged.  “You haven’t had a vacation in—well, probably since you started at Utumno.  Not a real one, anyway.  You work so hard, all the goddamn time, even when you’re sick, or hurt, or when your asshole boyfriend breaks up with you.” 

                “Melkor,” he said, hugging him.  “You didn’t have to do this.”

                “I wanted to,” Melkor said.  “No one deserves a break more than you do, and I’m gonna make sure you get one.  Somewhere warm, and far away from any of your idiot underlings.  But not without wifi, since I assume your paranoid ass will still want to check up on them.”

                Mairon laughed, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.  “Thank you,” he said, and there was such gratified sincerity in his voice that Melkor couldn’t help but kiss him again. 

                “Merry Christmas,” Melkor said, hugging him tightly.

                “Merry Christmas,” said Mairon, laying his cheek against Melkor’s chest and hugging him back. 

                “Yeah, yeah,” said Gothmog, rolling his eyes.  “You’re cute and in love.  We get it.  Gross.  Now are we going to blow some shit up, or what?”

                Mairon laughed and extricated himself from Melkor’s grasp.  “You grab the junk,” he said to Gothmog.  “I’ll get the explosives.”

                “Finally,” said Melkor, rubbing his hands together excitedly.  “A Christmas tradition I can really get behind.” 

 

               

               

               

               

               

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://wilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> In case you wanted a visual: here's the inspiration for [Mairon's sweater](http://www.agirlandagluegun.com/2015/11/ugly-sweater.html) , and also [Melkor's](http://www.uglychristmassweater.com/product/jingle-my-bells-hanging-decoration-ugly-christmas-sweater/).


	17. Let's Start the New Year Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys spend New Year's on vacation, for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr, by request, v late.

“Here,” said Melkor, bending down and holding out a glass. 

“I thought we were out,” said Mairon, taking the glass from him.

Melkor snorted. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to budget alcohol. This is not my first rodeo, my friend.”

“Luckily for me,” said Mairon, mock-serious. 

“Indeed,” said Melkor, lowering himself onto the sand. He slid his sunglasses off the top of his head and over his eyes, propping himself on his elbow. “You better move,” said Melkor, nodding at Mairon’s foot, resting just outside the protective shade of his umbrella. 

“Too comfy,” Mairon said, sprawled lazily in his beach chair, twirling a strand of hair around his index finger.

“You’re gonna burn,” said Melkor.

“Don’t care,” said Mairon, slinking lower in his chair.

Melkor rolled his eyes and pushed himself up, ducking under the umbrella. He put his hands on the back of Mairon’s chair and pulled, dragging him backwards into the safety of the umbrella’s shadow. 

“Thanks, babe,” said Mairon, tilting his head back and grinning at Melkor.

Melkor leaned down and kissed him on the lips. “What would you do without me, huh?”

“Get a lot more work done,” said Mairon.

“Have a lot less fun,” said Melkor.

“That’s probably true,” Mairon conceded. “Although, if I’m being honest,” he continued, watching Melkor walk around the chair and plop himself in the sand at Mairon’s feet, “I’m having a hard time being mad about it.”

“Is that right?” said Melkor, sliding back to lean against Mairon’s chest. 

Mairon wrapped his arms around Melkor’s chest and laid his cheek against the top of Melkor’s head. “Seriously, though,” he said, hugging Melkor to his chest. “This is the best gift anyone has ever gotten me.”

“High praise,” said Melkor, “considering some of the other kick-ass presents I’ve gotten you over the years.”

“Yeah,” said Mairon, “the ‘countdown ‘til Melkor busts outta this joint’ calendar that had your face printed on every day of the week is pretty stiff competition.”

“That was hilarious,” said Melkor. “And anyway, it was my first Christmas in jail. I was a little hamstrung in the present-buying department.”

“You made up for it this year for sure,” said Mairon, and Melkor grinned.

“I have to give Thil a little credit,” Melkor said. “She gave me some pretty good advice on that front.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Melkor, shifting so he could look at Mairon. “I was kind of freaking out about what to get you this year.”

“Were you really?”

“Yeah,” said Melkor. “I mean, it’s our first Christmas like, officially together. I wanted it to be something good.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Yeah, well, Thil said the best presents are ones you know the recipient wants but wouldn’t get for themselves.”

“She’s not wrong,” said Mairon. “I mean, I definitely wouldn’t have done this for myself.”

“No,” said Melkor. “But you needed it.”

“Not to be pedantic, but I don’t think anyone actually physically needs a week of sitting on a private beach.”

“No,” said Melkor, “but you do need to take a break once in a while—no matter how much you try to prove otherwise.”

“Yeah, well,” said Mairon, grinning. “I think this makes up for all the breaks I haven’t taken in the last couple years.”

“I’ll say,” said Melkor. “I mean, I don’t think you’ve looked at your phone all day.”

“You’re right,” said Mairon, surprised. “I don’t even have it with me.” He looked anxiously up the beach at the cabana where they were staying.

“You don’t need it,” Melkor assured him, reaching up to stroke his cheek.

“You’re right,” he said, leaning down to kiss him. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”


	18. My Funny Valentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys do Valentine's Day, thanks to a little friendly advice from Thil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr, by request, v late.

It was nine in the morning when Thuringwethil’s phone rang, shrill and insistent. She frowned at it, taking in the number for the front desk flashing on the caller ID. “This is Thuringwethil,” she said, glancing at her calendar, which she already knew was empty, and wondering what the receptionist could possibly want.

“Hey, Thil,” said a voice she recognized but, expecting Gelmir, could not immediately place. Then it hit her, and she rolled her eyes, sitting back in her chair.

“Jesus,” she said, sighing. “You scared me half to death, calling me from the desk. I thought I forgot something.”

“You?” Mairon said. “Please.” She could hear the good-natured grin in his voice, and though he couldn’t see her, she shook her head.

“Is your phone broken, or are you just aspiring to new heights of micromanagement?”

“There are always new heights of micromanagement,” he said gravely, “but this isn’t one. This is a courtesy call.”

“Oh, yeah? What for?”

“Flowers,” he said. “Come get ‘em before they’re mine.”

“I was going to say ‘you wouldn’t’,” she said, “but—”

“Yeah,” he said, “we both know that’s not true.”

“I’ll be right down,” she said.

Mairon heard the line go dead, and he hung up the phone. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and glanced at the elevator, as though already expecting her.

“Do you mind,” said Gelmir cautiously, “if I ask—“He trailed off, gesturing at the bouquets sitting side-by-side on the desk, his fear of Mairon overcoming his initial curiosity.

Mairon considered him for a moment, and Gelmir felt a pang of nervousness under the intensity of his gaze. Then Mairon turned away, running a finger over the card attached to the closest bouquet. “The first year I was here,” he said, “Thil was dating this guy—one of the last serious boyfriends she had, now that I think about it. Anyway, he was a jerk. They were all jerks, but I digress. The point is, he dumped her, and she was pissed—and sad, although she wouldn’t admit it at the time. I thought flowers would cheer her up, and apparently Gothmog and Melkor did too.“ He snorted and shook his head. “She was so happy that we ended up doing it the next year too, and the next, and…I don’t know. It kind of became an unspoken tradition, I guess.”

“It’s sweet,” Gelmir said.

“I guess,” said Mairon. He paused, considering Gelmir. “If you tell anyone that story,” he said, speaking slowly so as not to be misunderstood, “I will destroy you. Do you understand?” Gelmir nodded, hoping fervently that Mairon was kidding. 

The elevator doors opened with a chime, and Thuringwethil strode toward them across the lobby. “About time,” she said, grinning as she neared the desk. “I was starting to think you forgot.”

“Ungrateful,” Mairon said, scowling at her. 

She kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Mai,” she said.

“Hey!” said Melkor, coming through the front door with a cup in each hand. “Get your own boyfriend. That one’s mine.”

“Believe me,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know. Anyone who’s spent more than ten minutes with you in the last month knows.”

“Good,” he said, coming to stand with them at the desk. “That’s what I like to hear.” He surveyed the bouquets arranged neatly on Gelmir’s desk, nodding toward them. “I see you got your flowers,” he said. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You’re a dick, by the way,” she said. Still, she turned toward him, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thanks,” she said.

“No need to thank me,” he said. “Just remember you owe me one.”

“Honey, you could buy me flowers every day for the next three years and you wouldn’t even come close to tipping the balance of favors in your direction.’

“She’s got a point,” said Mairon.

“We’ll call it even,” said Melkor judiciously.

“Where’s Gothmog?” she asked, looking around as though expecting him.

“No idea,” Melkor said.

“Meeting, I think,” said Mairon. He turned toward Melkor, eyeing the cups in his hands. “One of those for me?”

“Obviously, you mooch,” he said, handing Mairon the cup in his left hand.

“Thanks,” Mairon said, grinning up at him. 

“None for me?” Thuringwethil demanded.

Melkor sighed theatrically and handed her the remaining cup. “Leeches,” he said, scowling at both of them. “You’re all leeches.”

“You love us,” Mairon said, leaning against him. Melkor rolled his eyes, but he put an arm around Mairon, kissing the top of his head.

“You two have plans tonight?” Thuringwethil asked, sipping her ill-gotten coffee.

“Nah,” said Melkor. “Workaholic here says he’s too busy.”

“It’s not my fault Valentine’s Day is in the middle of the week this year,” said Mairon.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Melkor. “Just get your shit done so we can celebrate this weekend.”

“Will do,” said Mairon. He glanced at his watch and sighed. “Speaking of which,” he said.

“Go,” said Melkor.

“I’ll see you later,” Mairon said, turning his face up so Melkor could kiss him. “Bye, Thil.” He headed for the elevator, sipping his coffee as he went.

“God,” Melkor said. “That ass, though.”

“I can hear you,” Mairon said over his shoulder.

“I know,” Melkor called after him, grinning

Mairon stepped into the elevator, blowing a kiss at him as the doors closed.

“God, you two are gross,” Thuringwethil said.

“We are, aren’t we?”

She laughed. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day when you had a date on Valentine’s Day and I don’t.”

“Mine’s technically not on Valentine’s Day, so you’re probably still fine,” Melkor said. “And anyway, I thought Gothmog was taking you out.”

“He is,” she said. “Which reminds me, I need to ask him where we’re going.” She pulled out her phone and sent him a text, typing quickly and efficiently. “So,” she said, looking up at him when she had finished, “you’re really not doing anything tonight?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Huh.”

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just—“She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s the first Valentine’s Day you guys are officially together. I guess I thought you’d want to do something.”

“I mean, I wanted to go out,” he said, “but you know Mai. He gets caught up in these ridiculous, self-imposed deadlines and stresses himself out.”

“That’s kind of his thing.”

“Yeah, but it’s been worse than usual since he got back. He’s so anxious to get things back on track and just, I don’t know, get back to normal. I just figured he didn’t need anything else to stress about. If that means waiting until this weekend when he has more time, then whatever. I can do that.” He stopped, catching the look on her face. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said. “That’s just a very un-Melkor-like train of thought.”

“Hey!”

“What?” she said, grinning. “It’s true.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but you don’t have to say it.”

“I kind of do,” she said. “I mean, it’s a big change—nice, obviously, but definitely a change.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, looking down as he scuffed the heel of his shoe against the polished tile floor. He muttered something indistinguishable.

“What was that?”

“I said he’s worth it,” said Melkor, an uncharacteristic flush creeping onto his cheeks. “There, you happy? Now get off my case, harpy.”

“You’re adorable,” she said, grinning and patting him on the cheek.

“Shut up,” he said, swatting at her hand.

“So goddamn cute,” she said, ruffling his hair.

He sidestepped away from her, glaring menacingly at her. “I’m not speaking to you,” he said.

“That’ll last ten minutes, tops.”

“I hate you.”

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

“Starting now,” he said, stalking off toward the elevator. “Enjoy your flowers, you pain in the ass.”

“Love you!” she called after him, grinning and waving.

He flipped her off and she laughed, half to herself. She turned back toward the desk, running her finger along the smooth edge of the card on the nearest bouquet. 

“Need help with these?” Gelmir asked, breaking her train of thought.

She blinked, shaking her head to focus. “Take them up to my office, will you?” Not waiting for a response, she strode to the stairwell and headed down the stairs toward the lower level.

She walked along the quiet hallway, heels clicking on the cold floor as she made her way toward the coding lab. The door opened as she approached, and Mairon stepped out, drawing up short as he saw her. “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing down here?”

“Looking for you,” she said.

“Yeah?” He crossed his arms. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said. “About your plans tonight.”

“I don’t have plans tonight,” he said.

“That’s kind of my point.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she said. “I know it’s the middle of the week, and I know you’re busy, but it’s Valentine’s Day—your first one as a real, actual couple. You should spend it with Melkor.”

“I—hang on. Did he say something to you? I thought he was okay with waiting ‘til the weekend.”

“He is,” Thuringwethil said. “I mean, this is a guy who won’t wait five minutes for a pizza to cool after it comes out of the oven, but he’s willing to wait an extra three days to see you, his favorite person in the world.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that just because he’s willing, doesn’t mean you should make him.”

“I know it sucks,” he said. “I do. But I’m busy, Thil. I have—”

“A hundred things to do,” she finished for him. “I know. You always do. So what’s the harm in taking a night off? It’ll all be there tomorrow.” 

“Thil, I—”

“Go to dinner,” she said. “See a movie. Hell, get drunk and call me at three a.m. to pick your sorry asses up, for all I care. Just take the night off and be with Melkor. It’ll mean a lot to him.”

He frowned, looking at her with an air of disapproval, but she held his gaze resolutely, crossing her arms over her chest. He stared at her for a moment more, and then he sighed, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “You’re right,” he said. “God, I hate it when you’re right.”

“Must be a familiar feeling.”

He rolled his eyes, and she grinned. “Thanks, Thil,” he said. “What would I do without you?”

“Die, probably,” she said. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We’d all be lost without you.”

“Glad you’re finally acknowledging it.”

“Come on,” he said. “I have to go get some stuff out of my office. You can gloat on the way up.”

*****

It was almost seven-thirty, and Melkor was sprawled on his couch, flipping disinterestedly through the endless channels on the television. “Hoarders,” he muttered, changing the channel. “Nope. Naked and Afraid…eh, not today. Ooh, the Olympics. Wait, curling? Ugh, pass.” He flipped down through a couple more channels, stopping on the local station. “Wheel of Fortune,” he said, rolling his eyes. “God, I hate Pat Sajak.”

A knock at the front door interrupted his distaste for the gameshow, and he frowned, wondering who had managed to wander all the way up to the top floor. “Go away,” he called. The knock came again, more insistent this time. “No,” Melkor called, louder. The knocking continued, making a switch from sharp-knuckled raps to thudding slams with a fist. “For fuck’s sake,” Melkor said, loudly enough to be heard down the hall. “Can’t you tell I’m not interested?”

“Are you sure?” a familiar voice called back.

Melkor started, surprised, and pushed himself up, trotting down the hall to the door. He pulled back the deadbolt, turned the lock, and flung open the door to find Mairon on the threshold, one arm cradling three large bags against his chest. “Jesus,” he said reproachfully, shifting his free arm to take some of the weight of the bags. “Took you long enough.”

“What are you doing here?” Melkor asked, bemused.

“Eating dinner, I hope,” said Mairon. “Preferably as soon as possible. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m starving.” He shifted the bags in his arms, and Melkor took two away from him.

“God, that smells good,” said Melkor.

“I got takeout,” he said. “From that Chinese place uptown you like. I know you hate to pick, so I got one of everything.”

“What are you doing here?” Melkor asked again. “I thought you were working.”

“I was,” Mairon said. “But it’s Valentine’s Day, and as Thil kindly reminded me this morning, the work isn’t going anywhere. It’s not going to hurt me to take a night off.”

Melkor smiled, then—not the quick, cocky grin Melkor knew so well, but rather something soft and warm that made Mairon’s heart ache in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but did not get the chance; Melkor crossed the threshold and kissed him, squashing the bags of food between them and wrapping his free arm around Mairon.

“Careful,” Mairon said, laughing and trying to keep hold of the food. “You’re squishing the boxes.”

“I don’t care,” said Melkor, kissing him again. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Mairon said, turning his face up so Melkor could kiss him again. Then he pulled away, looking over Melkor’s shoulder into the living room. “Is that Jeopardy?” he asked, hearing the theme song. “Perfect.” He brushed past Melkor and headed inside. 

“It really is,” Melkor murmured, watching him walk down the hall.


	19. A Matter of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Melkor met Thuringwethil, and why she finally decided to work for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long story, mostly because Thuringwethil is stubborn and wasn't easily convinced. Trigger warning for, as my girl Thil would say, assault with a deadly weapon. And some fighting. And some blood.

_September_

                “What can I get you?” asked the bartender.  She barely looked at him, her eyes scanning the waiting crowd.

                “Stand still a minute,” said the man at the bar.

                “Excuse me?”

                “Just like that,” he said.  “I’m taking a mental picture.”

                “I tack twenty bucks onto your tab every time I catch you staring at me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

                “Worth it,” he said. 

                “Do you want something other than to be a huge fucking creep?”

                “A beer, I guess.”  She reached beneath the bar and pulled out a bottle, sliding it across the bar to him.  “Twenty-four fifty,” she said.

                “Ouch,” he said, wincing.  “They really raised the price on imports, huh?”

                “Four fifty for the bottle,” she said.  “Twenty for being a creep.”

                He fished his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out a twenty and a ten.  “I like your business acumen,” he said.  “Keep the change.”  Then, taking his beer, he wandered off into the loud, smoky miasma of the crowd.

*****

                “Hey,” said Melkor, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and shifting his weight to warm his feet.  “Can I ask you something?”

                “Sure,” said Gothmog, counting six people out of line and letting them through.  They were outside the bar, where the typical weekend crowd was gathered, waiting for their turn to go inside. 

                “How well do you know the bartender?”

                “Which one?”

                “She’s tall, black hair, cute, with a hell of an attitude.”

                “Thuringwethil?”  said Gothmog, raising an eyebrow at him.  “I mean, she’s kind of my best friend, so.”

                “So, like, off-limits?”

                Gothmog snorted.  “You’re not interested in Thil.”

                “I kind of am.”

                “No, you’re not.”

                “Why not?”

                “Because I know Thil,” Gothmog said, “and I know you.  She’d eat you alive.”

                “Pretty sure you’re being dramatic.”

                “Fine,” said Gothmog, looking amused.  “It’s your funeral.”

*****

                _October_

“Can I get another beer?” Melkor asked.

                “Last call was ten minutes ago,” said Thuringwethil.

                “Is that a no?”

                Thuringwethil scowled at him, but she reached beneath the bar and took out a fresh bottle, handing it to him along with an opener.

                “Making me open my own damn bottle,” he said.  “Guess you don’t want a tip.”

                “We’re closing, asshole,” she said.  “You’re lucky I gave you anything at all.”

                “That’s probably true,” he said.  “So—”

                “No.”

                “I didn’t even ask the question yet.”

                “Was it ‘do you want to go out sometime?’”

                “Maybe.”

                “Then no,” she said.  “God, how many times do you have to get rejected before you get the message?”

                “Dude,” Melkor said, prying the cap off his beer and sliding the bottle opener back across the bar.  “I know you’re not going to say yes.  I’m not an idiot.”

                “Then why do you keep asking?”

                “Because Gothmog said I’d never get you to go out with me.  It’s kind of a stubbornness thing at this point.”  She snorted, and he grinned triumphantly.  “I made you laugh,” he said.  “That’s progress, right?”

                “Progress towards convincing me you’re a dumbass, maybe.”

                “But an _amusing_ dumbass, right?”

                “I’ll give you that one.”

                “So,” he said, looking around.  “What’s it take to close this place down?”

                “About an hour of manual labor,” she said.  “Why?”

                “Anything I can do to help?  I mean, I have to wait for Gothmog anyway.”

                “What, you think I’ll go out with you if you take out the trash?”

                “God, no,” he said.  “I’m sure your standards are higher than that.”

                “Damn right.”

                “I mean, scrubbing toilets, maybe.  But just the trash?  Forget it.”

                Thuringwethil laughed, despite herself.  “Here,” she said, handing him a plastic bin.  “Go clear the tables, if you want to be useful.”

*****

                _December_

“God, I’m tired,” Melkor whined, laying face-down on the bar. 

                “Someone puked there last night,” said Thuringwethil.

                “I’m sure you cleaned it.”

                “You want to take that chance?”  Melkor groaned and pushed himself up.  “If you’re so tired,” said Thuringwethil, pouring a pitcher for a waitress, “why don’t you go home?”

                “Because I have work to do.”

                “Same question.”

                “If I go home, I’ll dick around on the internet or watch TV or fall asleep.  I won’t get anything done.  But if I’m here, there’s literally nothing else to do, so I have to get shit done.”

                “That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard,” she said, handing a pitcher to the waitress.  She wiped off her hands and ambled over to where he sat.  “What are you working on, anyway?”  He slid his notes across the bar to her.  “Jesus,” she said, frowning.  “That’s a lot of math.”

                “You’re telling me.”

                “You understand this shit?”

                “I know my way around some calculus.”

                “Seriously?”

                “I mean, I’m an engineer,” he said.  “It kind of goes with the territory.”

                “You’re an engineer?”

                “Uh-huh.”

                “Like, a real, actual engineer?”

                “Is there a fake kind of engineer I don’t know about?”

                “Say something smart,” she demanded.  “Something engineer-y.”

                “Drag force is proportional to the velocity for a laminar flow and the squared velocity for a turbulent flow.”

                “Shit,” she said.  “That sounded legit.”

                “It was legit.”

                “Interesting,” she said.  “So, what kind of engineering do you do?”

                “Mechanical,” he said, “although, not officially.”

                “You’re not working as an engineer?”  He shook his head.  “Why not?”

                “Because I don’t want to work for some bullshit corporation doing bullshit work I don’t care about,” he said.  “

                “Join the club,” she said.  “Most people don’t want to waste their lives working for someone else.  Most people end up doing it anyway.”

                “I’m not most people,” he said.

                “I’ll give you that one,” she said, giving him an appraising look.  “So what would you do?” she asked, leaning against the bar.  “If you had your own way, I mean.”

                “I want to make unmanned aircraft,” he said.  “I’ve been designing them for a while now.”

                “Drones, huh?  That’s some sought-after shit.”

                “No kidding.”

                “So why don’t you do it?”

                “Because,” he said, “it’s not something you just go at on your own.  You need to get a contract, and to get a contract you have to have a company ready to build your designs, and to have a company you need to do a bunch of legal bullshit that I have no idea how to tackle.”

                “Well, I don’t know anything about engineering, but I know a little bit about legal bullshit.”

                “Yeah?”

                “I mean, I have a law degree.”

                “No shit,” Melkor said.  “Really?”

                “Yeah,” she said.  “I passed the bar, too.”

                “Well, look at you,” he said, grinning.  “So, can I ask—”

                “Why I’m working in this shithole if I’m a real, bona fide lawyer?”  She sighed.  “Honestly, it’s not an easy thing to get into in this city.  I’m clerking for the public defenders’ office during the day, but the pay is shit, so.”  She spread her arms, as though to indicate the whole of the bar.  “Here I am.”

                “Why don’t you apply somewhere else?”

                “I have,” she said, sounding tired.  “But there’s a lot of old money in the legal community around here, and it’s hard to get a decent gig if you don’t have connections.”

                “Yeah,” Melkor said, nodding sympathetically.  “That sucks, Thil.”

                “Tell me about it,” she said.  “Seriously, though, if you want me to look at your legal bullshit, just bring it over.”

                “Careful,” Melkor said.  “I might take you up on that.”

*****

                _March_

“It went through!” Melkor shouted, winding his way through the half-empty room to the bar.  “Hey, Thil!  It went through!”

                “Your business loan?  Holy shit, dude!  That’s great!”  She high-fived him across the bar.

                “Couldn’t have done it without you, Thil,” he said, grinning and taking at seat at the bar.  “Speaking of which,” he said, standing up again.  He pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket and slid it over to her.  “This is for you,” he said. 

                “I swear to God,” she said, scowling suspiciously at him, “if you printed out a picture of your dick—”She opened the envelope and froze, mouth-half open in shock.  “What is this?”

                “Not my dick,” he said.

                “Melkor.”

                “Consulting fee,” he said.  “I wasn’t sure about the going rate, so I estimated.  Is it not enough?  Because they gave me, like, a _shitload_ of money, and I wrote this off as an expense anyway—which, like, how awesome is that?—but also, I can get you more if you—”

                “Melkor, this is too much,” she said.  “You didn’t have to pay me at all.”

                “Yeah, I did,” he said.  “You saved my ass, Thil.  It’s the least I can do.”

                “But—”

                “Take the money,” he said.  “You earned it.  And anyway, I already wrote the check.  It’s not like you can un-write a check.”

                She laughed, shaking her head.  “You’re an idiot,” she said fondly.

                “Yeah,” he said, “but you like me.”

                “And to think I used to have standards.”

                “Yeah, yeah,” he said, grinning.  “Now are you gonna stand there thinking about how much you like me all night or are you going to get me a drink?”

                “Watch the attitude,” she said, reaching for the beer.  “And keep your money.  You’ve given me enough today.”

*****

                “There you are,” Melkor said, sliding into the booth opposite Thuringwethil and scowling at her accusingly.  “I thought I was going to lose my mind.”  They were sitting in a little diner, a grungy dive that nonetheless had unbelievable food; more imporatntly, it was cheap and convenient, and close to where they both worked downtown.  They had lunch there at least twice a week. 

                Thuringwethil handed him a menu and grinned.  “Did you miss me?”

                “Three days,” he said, not answering the question.  “Three goddamn days of having to go to the bar and buy my own damn drinks.”

                “Life’s rough, buddy.  But on the plus side, Gothmog said you took two different girls home.”

                “And one guy,” Melkor said, “but that’s not the point.”

                “Most of your monologues don’t have a point.”

                “The point,” he said, glaring at her, “is that you’ve been gone for three whole days.  I had to eat lunch alone, for fuck’s sake.”

                “Sucks to be you,” she said, picking up a menu.

                “Don’t be a dick,” he said.  “I’m trying to tell you that I missed you.”

                “Aw,” she said.  “That’s sweet.  Not mutual, but sweet.”

                “Hey!” he said, affronted. 

                “Okay,” she said.  “Maybe a little.  I was worried my friendly insult skills were going to get rusty.”

                “No worries on that front,” he said.

                “Stop glaring at me,” she said.  “Your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

                He stuck out his tongue at her, and she flipped him off.  “So,” he said, idly spinning the menu in his hands, “what did you do on your little vacation?”

                “Absolutely nothing,” she said.  “It was awesome.”

                “I bet.”

                “Thanks, by the way.”

                “For what?”

                “That ridiculous consulting fee.  It’s the only reason I could afford to take three days off from that hellhole of a bar.  Normally I’m barely scraping by working both jobs, but that check more than covered my rent and loan payment for the month.”

                “Loan payments, huh?”

                “Yeah,” she said.  “Going to a snotty private school is all well and good until you realize it’s ridiculously expensive.”

                “Yeah, no kidding,” Melkor said.  “Four years at Valarin cost more money than I could make in ten years.”

                “You went to Valarin?”

                “Do you have to sound surprised?”

                “No, it’s just—I did too.”

                “No shit,” Melkor said, grinning.  “Go Eagles, I guess.”

                “Bunch of bastards,” Thuringwethil said, making Melkor laugh.  “So, Valarin, huh?”  She looked him up and down, as though reappraising him.  “You must not be as dumb as you try to make yourself sound.  Their engineering program is hard as shit.”

                “The law program’s no picnic either.”

                “No kidding,” Thuringwethil said.  “They make us earn that number one in the country spot, that’s for damn sure.”

                “The profs are masochists,” Melkor said, nodding in agreement.

                “Hey, can I ask you something?”

                “Go for it,” he said.

                “How are you paying for it?  I mean, you just got your first real engineering job, and it’s self-employment, which doesn’t exactly make big money right out of the gate.”

                “Yeah,” Melkor said.  “Neither does tutoring rich prep school douchebags in math—which, by the way, thank God I could finally quit.”

                “So how are you paying for it?”

                “Trust fund,” Melkor said.

                “I’m serious.”

                “No, really,” he said.  “I paid for Valarin with money from my trust fund.”

                “You have a trust fund,” she said, eyeing him dubiously.

                “Had,” he corrected, draining the last of his beer.  “It’s gone now.  Did I mention that Valarin is stupidly expensive?”

                “Where in God’s name did you get a trust fund?”

                “My asshole dad,” Melkor said.  “And don’t sound so jealous.  It wasn’t worth it.  Like, zero out of ten, would not recommend.  But paying for college was the least he could do after the shit he put me through.”

                “At least you got something out of it,” she said.  “Some of us got the shitty family without any perks.”

                “Perks, my ass,” Melkor said.  “That was blood money, and I earned it.”

                “Got more than I did out of the deal,” she said.

                “You want to compare shitty family drama?” he asked, giving her a macabre grin.

                “You first,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning on the table.

                “Fine,” he said, cracking his knuckles.  “My dad was an emotionally distant prick who traveled for work and only came home one day a month to see my brother and me, yet still had the fucking nerve to think he could dictate who we were and what we did with our lives.”

                “My parents died in a freak accident when I was twelve.”

                “My dad shipped me off to boarding school when I was eleven and paid extra money to keep me there over the summer so he didn’t have to deal with me.”

                “I don’t have any siblings.  My parents were both only children.   My grandparents all died when I was a baby.  I was a ward of the state for three months after my parents died, until a bunch of my distant relatives showed up and started fighting over who got to take me in.”

                “My dad quit visiting me at school when I broke the school record for number of detentions in a single year.  He thought that would make be quit being an asshole in class or something.  Then, when that shitty plan didn’t work, he cut off my allowance until I decided to start behaving.  Spoiler alert: that didn’t work either.”

                “I ended up with my mom’s second cousin, who hated kids and didn’t want anything to do with me.  Turns out she only wanted me because my parents left me a shit ton of money, and she wanted to try to finagle her way into controlling it.”

                “I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen, legally emancipated myself, and moved out on my own.  I worked shitty jobs for a year to afford an apartment and food.  I ended up going to a local public school and testing out of all the classes I needed to graduate.  I killed the SAT and ended up getting into Valarin with no way to pay for it.  They wouldn’t even offer me loans because of how much goddamn money my dad has.  I ended up having to go beg my dad to give me the money he promised me for college when I was kid—which was maybe the shittiest conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”

                “This bitch got a judge friend of hers to sign over my trust fund to her, and she drained it under the guise of ‘providing for me’.  Then she kicked me out when I was eighteen and I ended up going to school on my own, taking out an obscene amount of loans to pay for it.”

                “And here we are,” Melkor said, “alive and kickin’ despite our families’ best efforts.”

                “Or something like that,” Thuringwethil said.

                Melkor sighed.  “Sorry your family’s shit, Thil.”

                “Yeah,” she said.  “You too.”

                “Hey,” he said, his face lighting up.  “I have a crazy idea.”

                “Yeah?  What’s that?”

                “Why don’t you work for me?”

                “What?”

                “I mean, we’re a startup now, so we don’t have a ton of money, but we’re really moving things along, and if we’re going to be a real company, we’re going to need a legal department.”

                “Melkor—”

                “We’ll have contracts and shit like that, and God knows someone’s going to end up suing us somewhere along the line.  That’s kind of par for the course in this business.”

                “Melkor—”

                “And if someone’s going to represent me, it ought to be someone who knows me.  Someone who gets they way I work.  Someone—”

                “Melkor, no.”

                “What do you mean, no?”

                “Look,” she said, sighing.  “I really appreciate the offer, but—”

                “You didn’t even hear the offer,” he said, shooting her a look of annoyance.

                She sighed, sitting back in the booth and running a hand through her hair.  “I’m not trying to be a dick,” she said.

                “Could’ve fooled me.”

                “Same,” she said.

                They stared at each other for a moment, both scowling.  Melkor broke first, running his hands over his face and making a noise of frustration.  “Just tell me why,” he said.  “No bullshit.”

                She stared at him a moment longer, sizing him up.  “No bullshit, huh?  Alright.  Like I just got done telling you, I don’t have a family, and believe it or not, I’m not great at making friends, or keeping them.  You and Gothmog are pretty much everything I have.”

                “Which means you’d get to work with your best friends.”

                “Yes,” she said.

                “Which would be great.”              

                “Yes,” she said.  “For a while.  Until shit goes wrong.  Until I have to tell you no.  Until you don’t want to listen to me.”

                “Thil, the fact that you have no problem standing up to me is half the reason I want you to have the job.”

                “You say that now,” she said, “but what about when you’re in the middle of a deal, trying to do something sketchy as hell, and I tell you that legally, as your actual lawyer, I can’t let you do it?  That goes one of two ways: either you say fuck it and do what you want, or you just fucking resent me for getting in your way.  Either way, I get screwed.  Either way, we stop being friends.”

                “Not to be a dick, Thil, but I think you’re being dramatic.”

                “Am I?” she demanded.  “Melkor, I know you.  I know the way you think, and I know what you’re capable of.  I have no doubt that you’re going to be successful.  I have no doubt that you can do anything you put your mind to.  But I also know that, in order to play this game and win it, you’ll do anything it takes.  You would lie, cheat, and steal, if it meant coming out on top.  And at the end of the day, if I got in your way—”

                “Jesus, Thil,” he said, giving her a reproachful look.  “You make me sound like an asshole.”

                “You are,” she said.

                “Yeah,” he said, impatiently, “but not to my friends.  I mean, I get it, Thil.  You’re family’s shitty.  So’s mine.  They let us down, we have trust issues, blah blah blah.  But you and Gothmog are my friends—hell, at this point, you’re basically my family.  You’re the only two people I give a damn about in the world, and if you think I’d let the business ruin that—"

                “I’m sorry,” she said, and to her credit, she looked as though she meant it.  “I just can’t take the risk.  I don’t want anything to come between us, especially not something as stupid as a job.  I’d rather stay poor than let that happen.”

                “And you’re not worried that turning down the offer would do the same thing?”

                “If you’re willing to throw away our friendship because I don’t want to work for you, then you’re not as good a friend as you think you are.”

                He groaned in frustration, laying his cheek against the sticky Formica of the table.  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said.  “I didn’t mean it.”

                “I know you didn’t,” she said, sighing.

                “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

                “Yeah,” she said.  “I am.”

                He sighed and shook his head.  “Okay then.  I guess that’s that.”

                “Are you mad?”

                “I’m disappointed,” he said.  “I mean, I’m going to need a lawyer on staff, and I think you’d be perfect for the job.  But I can’t force you, and honestly, I wouldn’t want to if I could.  You’re my friend before anything else.  I want you to be happy.”

                “Yeah?”

                “Yeah,” he said.  “Of course.”

                “That’s very adult of you.”

                “Ugh,” he said pulling a face.  “Gross.”

                She smiled.  “Are you sure you’re not mad?”

                “Nah,” he said.  “And even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be for long.  You know my attention span is too short for long-term grudges.”

                She laughed, despite herself.  Then she looked at her watch and made a face.  “Damn,” she said.  “We spent so much time bullshitting that I don’t think we have time to eat.”

                “What time is it?”

                “Almost one.”

                “Shit,” he said.  Then he pushed himself up and out of the booth.  “Come on,” he said, holding out his hand to her.  “There’s a food truck three blocks over.  I’ll get you something to go.”

*****

                _April_

“That’s a bust,” Gothmog said.  “You’re going to have to make a whole new one.”

                “It’s just a test piece,” Melkor said.  “It doesn’t have to be perfect.  It’s just, you know, proof of concept.  Or whatever.”

                “It’s a got a giant hole in it,” Gothmog said.

                “Yeah,” Melkor said.  “No shit.  Hand me the butane torch.”

                “Take the helmet first,” Gothmog said.

                “No helmet,” Melkor said.  “We go blind like men.”

                “You’re a pain in the ass,” Gothmog said, handing him the helmet anyway.

                “Are you licensed to do that?” asked a familiar voice from behind them.

                “Private property,” Melkor said, brushing off his hands and standing up.  “I can do whatever I want.”

                “You know rules apply to private property, right?” said Thuringwethil, picking her way carefully through the debris-strewn workroom.  “It’s not international waters.”

                “Whatever,” Melkor said.  “I do what I want.”

                “The Bauglir family motto,” she said, rolling her eyes.

                “Given that I’m the only member of clan Bauglir, I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”

                “Where’ve you been hiding?” Gothmog asked.  “I haven’t seen you in a week.”

                “Trying not to murder my dumbass clients, mostly.”

                “At the bar or the public defender’s office?”

                “Both,” she said.  “But speaking of work, I got an interesting phone call today.”

                “Yeah?” Gothmog said.  “From who?”

                “Dahan-Igwis-Telgun.”

                “Shit,” Gothmog said.  “That fancy-ass lawyer group?”

                “Uh-huh,” she said.  “They’re one of the most respected law firms in the country.”

                “That’s great, Thil!  What’d they say?”

                “They want me to come in for an interview.”

                “Really?  Holy shit!  That’s awesome!”

                “I know,” she said.  “But you know what’s really interesting?”

                “What?”

                “I never sent them a résumé,” she said.  “I never applied for a job with them.”

                “So how’d they get your name?”

                “That’s what’s really weird,” she said.  “They said I was recommended to them by a friend.”

                “What friend?” Gothmog asked.

                “Yeah,” said Thuringwethil, turning to Melkor.  “What friend?”

                “If you know,” said Melkor, “then why are you asking?”

                “You called your brother?”

                “Unfortunately,” he said, making a face.  “He interned with them or some shit.  I don’t know.  But he knows them.”

                “You called your brother,” she said again, looking at him dubiously.

                “Yep.”

                “Your brother, who you hate.”

                “Uh-huh.”

                “You did that for me?”

                “Yeah,” he said, “and just so you know, he made me promise to go to dinner with him and his stupid new fiancée, so you really owe me.”

                “Melkor,” she said, her tone uncharacteristically soft.

                “I’m kidding,” he said.  “You don’t owe me.  Much.”

                “You didn’t have to do that,” she said. 

                “I know,” he said.  “I’m just like, _really_ fucking nice.”

                “I turned you down,” she said.  “You offered me a job, and I—”

                He snorted.  “Jesus,” he said, shaking his head.  “You really think I’m an asshole, don’t you?”

                “I didn’t mean—”

                “Look, Thil.  I don’t know much, but I do know talent when I see it.  You’re really fucking smart, and you’re damn good at your job.  You don’t deserve to rot in the public defender’s office.  You deserve a real job, and if you’re not going to take one with me, then you might as well get one somewhere that’ll appreciate you.”

                Thuringwethil laid a hand on his arm.  “Thank you,” she said.  “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

                “Is it, like, a specific monetary value?  Or can I redeem it in, say, beer?”

                “I get this job,” she said, “and you’ll never pay for alcohol again.”

                “Ace this interview,” Melkor said, mock-serious.  “I’m begging you.”

*****

_October_

“Hey,” said Thuringwethil, striding quickly over to the table where Gothmog and Melkor were already seated.  “Sorry I’m late.”

                “No worries,” Gothmog said.  “I’m just glad you could come.”

                “Yeah,” Melkor said.  “I mean, especially since you have the goddamn nerve to call me a flake last week.”

                “You are a flake,” she said, sitting down beside him. 

                “Newsflash, asshole,” he said.  “I was here five minutes early.”

                “This time,” she said.  “Last week I waited twenty minutes at that shitty coffee place you like.”

                “I was in a meeting,” he said defensively.

                “You were asleep in your office,” Gothmog said.

                “Traitor,” Melkor said, glaring at him.

                “I actually was in a meeting,” Thuringwethil said.  “Which is why I was late.”

                “Hope those assholes are paying you overtime.”

                “Yeah, right,” she said.  “They expect me to just be grateful for the job.”

                “Do you like it, at least?”

                “The client I just met with called me a cunt,” she said.  “Three times.  Oh, and he spit in my face.”

                The grin on Melkor’s face slipped away, becoming an angry grimace.  “And this client’s name is?”

                “Attorney-client privilege,” she said.

                “That’s a weird name.”

                “Melkor.”

                “That’s not how attorney-client privilege works, anyway.”

                “How would you know?”

                “Thil, don’t make me break into your office to find out who I have to murder.”

                “Don’t make me have to defend you in a murder trial _pro bono_.”

                He scowled at her.  “You are one of two people in the entire world I actually like,” he said.  “I’m not gonna let someone treat you like that.”

                “Yeah,” Gothmog said, “me either.”

                “Look, guys, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but it’s not worth it.  The dude’s an asshole, but he’s my client.  I just have to deal with it until the case wraps up—which is soon, thank God.”

                “I’ve seen you deck douchebags at the bar for way less,” Gothmog said.

                “Yeah,” she said, “but that was a job I could afford to lose.”

                “So’s this,” Melkor said.

                “It’s not, though,” she said.  “I mean, the pay is garbage and the hours are shitty and the clients are the kind of old money yuppies I normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, but it’s a job.  Like, a _real_ job, one that could be a real career.  Or at least a stepping-stone to one, anyway.”           

                “If you survive it,” Gothmog said.

                “You’re being dramatic.”

                “Thil,” Melkor said, “we just—”

                “Can you two drop it?” she snapped.  “Please?  Jesus, I have enough stress at work.  Is it so much to ask not to nagged to death on my lunch break?”

                Gothmog and Melkor exchanged a look, and Thuringwethil scowled at eat of them in turn.  “Fine,” Melkor said, picking up his menu.  “But I’m buying your lunch.  Don’t argue.”

                “Fine,” she said.  “But then you gotta stop being nice to me.  It’s weirding me out.”

                “Dickhead,” he said.

                “That’s better,” she said, grinning at last.

*****

                _December_

“You think Thil wants to get dinner?” Melkor asked, glancing over at Gothmog.  “I mean, we’re not far away.”

                It was true; they had gone to a meeting with a potential recruiter for security personnel, and the courthouse was only a few blocks away.

                “I don’t know,” Gothmog said, glancing in the direction of the courthouse.  “It probably depends on what happens.  Her case is going to close today, I think.”

                “Shit,” Melkor said.  “You’re right.  We ought to go see what happened.”

                “If it went south, she’s probably not going to want to hang out.’

                “Who cares how it went?  Either way she’s done with that douchebag she’s been complaining about for the last six months.”

                “True,” Gothmog said.  “Alright.  Let’s go see if we can catch her.”

                It took five minutes to walk to the courthouse, through crowds of people just leaving work and heading for home.  Still, the crowds thinned as they went on; most people were heading away from the two of them, and it got easier to walk as they got nearer.  When they reached the courthouse stairs, the sidewalk was all but empty, oddly quiet after the rush.  Melkor started up the stairs, but Gothmog caught his arm.

                “They’re not going to let us in,” he said.  “We don’t have a reason to be there.”

                “I’m a good liar,” Melkor said.

                “Come on,” Gothmog said, pulling him back down the stairs.  “Thil will kill us if she has to bail us out after being in court all day.  Let’s just go wait by her car.”

                “And scare the shit out of her when she comes down,” Melkor said, grinning.

                “You do that,” Gothmog said.  “I just said I don’t want to die.”

                They headed around the side of the building to the parking garage.

                Thuringwethil, meanwhile, was already walking up the stairs to the fourth floor, where she had parked.  It had been a long and tasking day, filled with last-minute meetings and the tedium of court proceedings.  It hadn’t been particularly rewarding, either; her client had been found guilty.  Not that it was a surprise—she had told him from the beginning that any jury in its right mind was going to convict him.  She had begged him for weeks to consider the plea deal the prosecution was offering, but he had outright refused, telling her it was her job to get an acquittal, evidence be damned. 

                She rolled her eyes, thinking about it now.  He was an idiot and a careless criminal, but he had a lot of money, which bought him both the luxury of expensive legal representation and the entitled belief that he could treat his lawyer like garbage.  _Oh well,_ she thought, trying to clear the annoyance from her mind.  She wouldn’t have to deal with him much longer.  With luck, the sentencing would be in a couple weeks, and she would be rid of him for good.

                Thuringwethil walked through the parking garage, too distracted to hear the footsteps behind her until it was too late.  Hands grabbed her arms and her waist, pulling her back into the dark space between two cars.  She tried to turn and tried to scream, but hands were holding her still, covering her mouth.  She bit into the hand over her mouth and used the hands at her shoulders to pull herself up, lifting her feet from the ground and kicking back, striking shins with her stilettos and earning a string of curses from her assailant. 

                “God,” said a deep voice she didn’t recognize.  “The bitch is feisty.”

                “Shoulda been this feisty in the courtroom,” said a second voice.  “The boss is pissed.”

                “Too late now,” said the first voice.  “You let him down, you gotta learn a lesson.”

                Thuringwethil was still struggling, but she was outmatched in strength and in number, and she felt herself terrifyingly restrained, held by heavy hands that bruised her skin.  Then she felt something cold and sharp against the skin of her arm, and she froze, terror or instinct holding her in place. 

                “Nah,” the second man, somewhere to her left.  “That’s too easy.  Go higher.  Somewhere she can’t hide it.”

                Thuringwethil felt the blade of a knife, cold and sharp, drag roughly up the skin of her arm, tracing a path from elbow to shoulder.  It caught roughly in the threads of her blouse, tearing it a little.  She was beginning to panic, and yet she stood still, frozen in terror and indecision.  She stood there, heart hammering in her chest, agonizingly turning over her limited options in her mind, when she heard a voice, echoing through the damp concrete around her.

                “…really stupid idea, dude.  I mean, we don’t even know where she parked.  It could be anywhere.”

                “You’re the one that wouldn’t let me go in.  If you—”

                “I can’t trust you in a gas station, let alone the courthouse, and besides—”

                Thuringwethil felt a swell of adrenaline as she recognized the voices which, by some miracle, sounded as though they were approaching.  Steeling herself, she thrashed against the hands that held her, managing to free her mouth long enough to shout “Help!  Over he—"

                A hand fisted in her hair and yanked her head back, and she screamed, more from urgency and desperation than from pain.  One of the men twisted her arm behind her back, crushing it to his chest.  She felt the knife at her neck once more, the tip shoved hard against her throat.  She felt the sting as it cut her, felt blood run down her neck.  “Hurry up,” said one of the men, the one who was holding her.  “Someone—”

                Whatever he meant to say was lost, cut off in a grunt of pain as he was tackled from the side.  Thuringwethil was thrown forward, and she sprawled onto the concrete, catching herself on hands and knees.  She pushed herself back, out of the way, and looked up, hardly believing what she saw.  Gothmog had one of the men pinned over the hood of a car and was grappling with him for the knife.  Melkor dodged a blow from the other and landed a punch square in the man’s jaw, sending him reeling.  Melkor followed him, slamming his fist into the man’s face three times in quick succession.  The man’s nose broke with an audible crunch, and he dropped like a stone, falling to the concrete in an awkward heap.  Melkor lunged after him, but Gothmog caught him by the arm, pulling him back.

                “He’s down, dude,” Gothmog said gently.  “Let it go.”

                Melkor was breathing heavily, his hair disheveled, but he nodded, reigning himself in.  “Call the cops,” he said gruffly, turning away.  He walked over to where Thuringwethil sat sprawled on the ground and crouched down beside her.  “You okay, Thil?”

                “What are you guys doing here?” she asked, still baffled by their timely and inexplicable appearance. 

                “Shit, Thil.  You’re bleeding.”

                “How did you—where did you—”

                “We had a meeting downtown,” Melkor said, holding out his hand to her.  “We thought you might want to grab dinner.”  He pulled her up, and she let him tilt back her chin to look at the wound on her neck.  “Shit,” he said again.  “That’s going to need stitches.”  He frowned, looking around for something to stem the bleeding, but found nothing at hand.  He pulled his arms through the sleeves of his hoodie and pulled it up over his head, handing it to her.  She wrapped the ragged sleeve around her hand and pressed it to her neck, wincing.

                “Melkor,” she said, looking at him.  “Your hand.”

                Melkor looked down at his right hand, which had started to swell along the knuckles.  “Damn,” he said, shaking his head.  “Didn’t even feel it.”

                “Cops are on their way,” Gothmog said, slipping his phone into his pocket. 

                “You’re okay, Thil,” Melkor said, laying a hand gently on her shoulder.    

                Thuringwethil nodded, and promptly burst into tears.

*****

                “Is it too early for alcohol?” Melkor asked putting his face down on the grimy table of the booth and letting his forehead thud gently against it a few times.

                “It’s eleven a.m.,” Thuringwethil said.

                “That’s not an answer,” Gothmog and Melkor said in unison.

                “Jinx,” Melkor said.  “You owe me a beer.”

                “It’s a coke, dumbass.”

                “My jinx,” Melkor said.  “My rules.”

                “Anyway,” Thuringwethil said, “this is a diner, not the bar.”

                “Yeah, wrong venue,” Melkor said.  “Let’s switch.”

                “I’m starving,” Thuringwethil said.

                “Alcohol has calories.”

                “I don’t think you’re supposed to drink after you’ve been in the hospital all night.”

                “Half the night,” Melkor corrected.  “We were in the police station the other half.”

                “Whatever,” she said.  “I’m starving.”

                “How you feeling, by the way?”

                “Alright,” she said, turning her head gingerly and wincing.  “Neck hurts like a bitch.  You?”

                “I have a feeling I’m gonna be real sick of this cast pretty soon, but otherwise, it’s fine.”

                “You guys—“She stopped, frowning, as though trying to marshal her thoughts.  “I don’t know what possessed you to come looking for me yesterday,” she said at last, her voice small and quiet, “but I’m glad you were there.  I mean, Jesus.  I don’t know what would’ve happened if you weren’t.”

                “But we were,” Gothmog said, “so don’t think about it.”

                “I owe you guys.”

                “You don’t owe us shit,” Melkor said.  “I mean, fuck.  How many times have you D.D’ed for us?  That’s worth a little ass-kicking on your behalf.”

                “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but she smiled.  “I love you guys.”

                “We love you too, Thil,” Gothmog said.

                “I’d love you more if you’ve stop stabbing me with your goddamn heels under the table,” Melkor said. 

                She laughed, kicking his feet good-naturedly.  Then she yawned, covering her mouth with the poorly-laminated menu in her hands.  “God, I’m tired,” she said.

                “Join the club,” said Melkor.

                “You talk to your shithead boss?” Gothmog asked, looking at Thuringwethil.

                “You talk to yours?” she shot back.

                “Hey,” Melkor said reproachfully.

                “They’re giving me the day off,” she said.

                “The day?” Gothmog said, raising an eyebrow.  “After what you went through?”

                “You deserve at least the rest of the week,” Melkor said.

                “I agree,” she said.  “The douchebags at the firm do not.  In fact, they’d like me to spend my day off writing a letter of apology to my asshole client.”

                “Excuse me?” said Gothmog.

                “Yeah,” she said, “apparently he’s pissed he got convicted.”

                “His fucking cronies literally just got booked for taking a chunk out of your neck,” Melkor said.  “And your boss—”

                “Is an asshole,” she said, “who doesn’t give a damn about me and never did.  Which is why I quit.”

                “You quit?”

                “Yeah,” she said.  “I have too much self-respect to let that shit slide.”

                “Good for you,” Gothmog said.

                “In theory,” she said.  “In practice, I’m out of a job.”  She sighed, crossing her arms on the table and lowering her head to rest on them.  “Fuck me,” she said, sounding exhausted.  She sat up and looked at Gothmog.  “Think the bar will hire me back?”

                “Maybe,” he said.

                “Or,” said Melkor, “you could reconsider my offer.”

                She stared at him for a moment.  “Melkor,” she said quietly.

                “Okay, okay,” he said.  “I get it.  Not a good time.  But just think about it before you—”

                “I turned you down,” she said.

                “I know,” he said.  “I just think you should—”

                “I fucking turned you down,” she said, shaking her head.  “I told you I thought you were too much of a self-centered asshole to put our friendship before your business.”

                “I mean, it wasn’t an unreasonable concern.”

                “And then,” she said, ignoring him, “you called your brother, who you hate, and got him to recommend me to one of the best firms in the city.”

                “You forgot the part where I had to go to dinner with him,” Melkor said.  “That was the real torture.”

                “Melkor,” she said.

                “Thuringwethil,” he said.

                “You’d still offer me the job?”

                “Hell yeah,” he said.  “You’re still the most badass lawyer I know—well, okay, you’re the only lawyer I know, but still—”

                “Your brother’s a lawyer,” Gothmog pointed out.

                “Shut up, dude,” Melkor said.  “Let me give the lady a backhanded compliment in peace.”

                Thuringwethil laughed, looking happier than Melkor had seen her in months.  She leaned forward and put her hand over Melkor’s on the table.  “You’re a good guy, Melkor,” she said quietly, smiling at him.  “Remind me I said that the next time you’re being an asshole.”

                “Like I’m ever gonna let you forget.”

                She sat back, still smiling.  “Fuck,” she said, shaking her head.  “Am I going to have to start calling you boss now?”

                “It’s a requirement for the job, yes.”

                “Is it too late to reconsider?”

                “Yes,” he said.  “Absolutely.  Now are we going to eat, or do you want to tell me how great I am some more?  Because honestly, I’m good either way.”

                “God, I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

                “Probably at least once a day,” he said.  “But I promise I’ll try to make it worth your while.”

                “I’m not sure I want to know what that means.”

                “Too bad,” he said, grinning.  “Because I have a feeling you’re going to find out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)


	20. Thriller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang tackles a haunted house--with a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a few days late! Hope you like it :)

“God, this line is long,” said Melkor, standing on tiptoe in an effort to see the door, still ten feet or more away.

 

“Yeah,” said Gothmog.  “How long have we been standing here?”

 

“At least an hour,” Melkor said.

 

“It’s been twenty minutes,” said Mairon.  “And the line is moving. We’re almost at the front.”

 

Thil better hurry the hell up,” Melkor said.  “I’m not waiting in line all over again just because she can’t get her ass here on time.”

 

    “You really don’t have room to complain about other people being late,” Gothmog said.

 

    “Fine,” Melkor said.  “But if she’s not here when we get to the front, I’m going in without her.”

 

    “She’ll kill you,” Mairon said.

 

    “Not if she can’t get in,” Melkor said, grinning.

 

    “Speaking of Thil,” said Mairon, “where is she?”

 

    “Yeah,” Gothmog said.  “It’s not like her to be late.”

 

    “There she is,” Melkor said, pointing toward the figure moving up the line toward them.

 

    “Hi, boys,” said Thuringwethil, grinning.  “Sorry we’re late. Parking’s a bitch around here.”

 

    “No kidding,” Melkor said.  “I’m surprised you found a spot.”

 

    “I might’ve made my own,” she said, ducking under the caution tape that served to outline the queue.  

 

    “Nice,” Melkor said, grinning.

 

    “Oh,” she said, turning to the woman who had followed her.  “Guys, this is Ilmarë.” The woman called Ilmarë smiled, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her face.  “Ilmarë,” Thuringwethil continued, “this is Gothmog and Melkor and Mairon.” She turned to each of the boys as she said their names, and Ilmarë shook their hands.

 

    “Nice to meet you all,” Ilmarë said.  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

    “Lies,” Melkor said.  “Probably. What did she tell you?”

 

    “That you’re a paranoid narcissist.”

 

    “Sounds about right,” Mairon said, grinning.

 

    “You shut up,” Melkor said, glowering at him.

 

    “Hey!” said a voice from behind them.  “There’s a line here. Your friends can’t just cut.”

 

    “Oh, sorry,” said Ilmarë automatically, but she fell silent as all four of her companions turned around to level angry, menacing scowls at the man who had spoken.  Cowed by their combined ferocity, the man turned away, muttering under his breath.

 

    “Wow,” said Ilmarë as the four of them turned back around, nonchalantly resuming their casual stances.  “That was impressive.”

 

    “You know resting bitch face?” Gothmog said, shuffling forward as the line moved ahead.

 

    “Yeah,” said Ilmarë.

 

    “We’ve perfected the active version.”

 

    She laughed, and Thuringwethil rolled her eyes, playfully waving Gothmog away.

 

    “So, Ilmarë,” Mairon said.  “What do you do?”

 

    “I’m a lawyer,” Ilmarë said.

 

    “Really?” Melkor said, raising an eyebrow.

 

    “Is it that surprising?”

 

    “I mean, I’m always surprised that anyone wants to be a lawyer.”

 

    “Luckily for you,” Ilmarë said.  “I hear you make frequent use of the profession.”

 

    “I’ve been known to seek out legal services,” Melkor said, grinning.  “Anyway, I just meant you didn’t really look the type.”

 

    “Yeah?  Why not?”

 

    “I mean, you’re…”He gestured helplessly at her, at a loss for how to phrase his thoughts.  “Cute,” he finished lamely.

 

    “So’s Thil,” Ilmarë shot back.

 

    “Yeah,” Melkor said, “but she’s also fucking terrifying.”

 

    “You’ve never seen me in negotiation,” Ilmarë said gravely.

 

    “Fair enough,” Melkor said.  They had now made it to the very front of the line, and he looked excitedly at the door as it swung shut behind the last people to go inside.  

 

    “So, Ilmarë,” Gothmog said.  “Where’d you find our Thil?”

 

    “In the courthouse, actually.  I was filing some documents with the state a couple weeks ago and ran into her.”

 

    “Literally,” Thuringwethil said.  “The papers I was carrying went everywhere.”

 

    “All over the stairs,” Ilmarë said.  

 

    “It was like a tacky movie.”

 

    “I felt awful,” Ilmarë said, “so I offered to buy her lunch.”

 

    “It was so much fun, we decided to hang out again, and well.  Here we are.”

 

    “Uh-huh,” Melkor said.  Thuringwethil shot him a look, and he shrugged, falling silent.

 

    “Alright,” said the door attendant, motioning them forward.  “You’re up.”

 

    “Sweet,” Melkor said, grinning and pushing ahead.

 

The ramshackle old house felt as abandoned on the inside as it had looked from the outside.  The lights in the hall were flickering, casting intermittent shadows on the walls and floor ahead of them.  The floorboards creaked under their feet, and the door slammed shut ominously behind them.  “First one to scream owes me ten bucks,” Melkor said, leading them down the hall.

 

“You’re on,” said Gothmog.

 

“And when you scream first?” Thuringwethil asked.

 

“Yeah, right,” said Melkor.

 

“You scream first,” Mairon said, “and you owe me twenty.”

 

“Deal,” said Melkor.

 

They came to a closed door, and Melkor stopped, grinning mischievously.  “Who wants to go first?”

 

“Obviously not you,” Mairon said.

 

“You calling me scared?”

 

“Quit stalling,” Thuringwethil said, pushing past him and into the room. 

 

“I wasn’t—shit!” Melkor jumped back as an actor leapt from the shadows beyond the door, bloody face twisted in a grimace.  Thuringwethil merely blinked and brushed past them both. 

 

“I take cash, check, and PayPal,” Mairon said, patting Melkor on the shoulder.

 

“Double or nothing,” Melkor said.

 

“You can’t get back a first scream,” Mairon said.  “It’s done.”

 

“Fine, then.  Twenty bucks says you scream before the end of this thing.”

 

A chainsaw-wielding fiend stepped out from beyond a shadowy doorway, shouting at them and startling Ilmarë, who knocked into Thuringwethil.  “Nice face paint,” Gothmog said. 

 

“Thanks,” mumbled the white-faced actor, melting back into the shadows.    

 

“You want to pay me another twenty bucks,” Mairon said, “you be my guest.”

 

“Alright, tough guy,” Melkor said.  “But you have to go first.”

 

“Fine by me,” Mairon said, pushing past him.

 

“God save us all from testosterone,” Thuringwethil said, rolling her eyes.  Ilmarë laughed.

 

“I don’t see you volunteering to lead the way.”  An artificially pale wraith-like woman in bloodied choir robes screamed loudly as they passed, holding out her arms toward them imploringly.  “We’re trying to have a conversation here, lady,” Melkor said, waving her away.

 

“Well, excuse _me_ ,” she said, annoyed.

 

“Sorry,” Gothmog said as he passed.

 

“I don’t see you volunteering either,” Thuringwethil said, as though no one else had spoken.

 

“You think I won’t go first?” Melkor shot back.

 

“And you complain about us,” Mairon said.

 

“I’ll go first,” Thuringwethil said.

 

“So will I,” said Melkor.

 

“We can’t all be first,” Mairon said.

 

“We aren’t all trying to,” Gothmog said.  “Ilmarë and I are normal people back here.”

 

“I’m not complaining about anyone wanting to go first,” Ilmarë said.  “Gives me a buffer.”

 

“Scaredy cat,” Melkor said, grinning over his shoulder.  Thuringwethil slapped him with the back of her hand.  “Ow, Thil,” he complained.  “Goddamn it.  Why do you have to—“He cut off suddenly, letting out a half-stifled yelp as a plastic skeleton swung down from the rafters directly in front of him, laughing maniacally as it went, its eyes glowing red.

 

“Scaredy cat,” Thuringwethil said, imitating his tone of voice.

 

“I’m going to shove you in front of the next homicidal maniac I see, Thuringwethil whatever-your-last-name-is.”

 

“Touch me and I swear to God—”

 

“While you two are bickering,” Mairon said, “I’m—“He turned toward the figure looming to his left.  “Spray silly string on me and I will break your fingers,” he said, with enough sincerity to make the actor back away, lowering the can.  He turned back to Melkor and Thuringwethil.  “I’m up here leading the way,” he finished, grinning smugly.

 

“Not for long,” Melkor said, as Mairon turned and ran ahead. 

 

“Get back here,” said Thuringwethil, following them.

 

“Are they always like this?” asked Ilmarë, walking beside Gothmog and watching the chaotic scene ahead of them with bemusement.

 

“Almost always,” Gothmog said gravely.  “It’s fun to watch, and even more fun to egg on.”  She laughed, and they followed the retreating sound of the trio’s bickering into the next room.  “Watch your step,” Gothmog said, pointing out the suddenly sloping floor. 

 

“Thanks,” Ilmarë said, letting him steady her.  “You know,” she said, as they dodged some fake cobwebs and a very realistic zombie, who trailed them doggedly through the hallway ahead, “it’s funny to see her like this.  I see her a lot at work, and she’s so serious.  It’s nice to see her around friends.”

 

“Thil’s a lot of fun when she takes the stick out of her ass,” Gothmog said.  “Don’t tell her I said that.  But seriously, she doesn’t let a lot of people see her fun side.  She must like you.”

 

“I hope so,” Ilmarë said.

 

A figure came at them through the doorway.  Ilmarë jumped, startled, but it was only Thuringwethil, backtracking.  “There’s a split up ahead,” she said.  “I lost the two doofuses.”

 

“Is it doofuses?” Gothmog wondered aloud.  “Maybe doofi?  Doof—”

 

“Idiots,” Thuringwethil amended, laying a hand on his arm.  She turned to Ilmarë.  “Sorry I left you behind.  I get a little competitive sometimes.”

 

“I can tell,” Ilmarë said.  Thuringwethil had the grace to look chagrined.  “No worries,” Ilmarë said, touching her shoulder.  “I had good company.”

 

“Gothmog’s a good guy,” Thuringwethil said. 

 

“The best,” Gothmog said, grinning.  “Now let’s go find our fearless leaders before they cause any serious damage.” 

   

                They walked into a room with strips of tattered, blood-spattered fabric hanging from the ceiling.  The lights were dim, and the fabric moved with the drafts and the passage of the patrons, casting strange, elongated shadows on the wall.  Halfway to the door, the lights went out, making Gothmog and Ilmarë pull up short.  “Don’t worry,” Thuringwethil said, stepping in front of them.  “There’s a door in ten feet.  Watch out for the dude in the clown mask.”

  
                Almost as soon as she had spoken, an actor in a horrifying clown mask jumped from the wall to their right, shrieking and turning on a flashlight, which he held under his chin to give his face an eerie glow.  His reception was lukewarm thanks to Thuringwethil’s warning, and he sighed heavily, mumbling “Thanks a lot, lady,” as he clomped back to the wall in his oversized boots.

 

                “Sorry,” Ilmarë said, following Thuringwethil and Gothmog to the door.  Thuringwethil pulled it open and let them through, shutting it behind them.  A coffin lay in the center of the room, and she walked over to it.  “Watch out for this guy,” she said as the man inside sat suddenly up, baring his teeth through zombie-fied makeup. 

 

                “Come on, dude,” said the disgruntled zombie.

 

                “We’re busy,” Thuringwethil said, walking around him to the two closed doors beyond. 

 

                “It’s a haunted house,” he said, clearly annoyed. 

 

                “And you get paid whether I tell my friends about your dumb zombie bit or not,” she snapped.  “So shut up and lay down.”

 

                “Harsh,” Ilmarë said, as the zombie begrudgingly lay back down in his coffin.

 

                “Sorry,” Thuringwethil said, managing to look mildly apologetic.  Gothmog raised an eyebrow but said nothing.  “But I really want to catch up to those two before I have to talk someone out of a lawsuit.”

               

                “Is that likely?”

 

                “Depends on how quickly we catch up,” Thuringwethil said darkly.  Ilmarë laughed; the other two did not. 

 

                “Oh,” said Ilmarë.  “You’re serious.”

 

                “Please,” said Thuringwethil, rolling her eyes.  “Like you don’t know our reputation.”

 

                “I try not to judge on hearsay,” Ilmarë said.

 

                “You’re a better person than me,” said Gothmog.

 

                “And me,” said Thuringwethil.

 

                “Should we split up?” Ilmarë asked.  She didn’t look particularly thrilled by the suggestion.

 

                “Nah,” said Gothmog.  “Mairon’s fine on his own.  It’s Melkor we have to worry about.”

 

                “Are you sure about that?” Thuringwethil asked.  “I mean, if anyone has the ability to drag Mairon down to his level, it’s Melkor.  And that’s a dangerous level for anyone to be at.”

 

                “Fair point,” Gothmog said.  “But Mairon’s smarter about his shenanigans, so I still say Melkor’s the dumbass to follow.”

 

                “Fair enough,” said Thuringwethil.  She pointed over her left shoulder.  “He went this way.”

 

                “Alright, Vanna,” said Gothmog, grinning.  “Show us what’s behind door number one.”

 

                “There’s no doors on Wheel of Fortune, dummy,” she said, turning and pulling open the door.

 

                “It’s called artistic license,” said Gothmog, unbothered, following her through the door.

 

                “You’re not an artist.”

 

                “That’s not what that means, nitpicker.”

 

                Ilmarë laughed.  “You guys are something else,” she said, grinning.

 

                “That’s a nice way of saying it,” Gothmog said.

 

                “Sorry,” Thuringwethil said, smiling apologetically.  “We can be a little much.”

 

                “Nah,” Ilmarë said, waving her apology away.  “You guys are great.”

 

                “You’re either super nice,” Gothmog said, “or super forgiving.  Either way, I like it.”

 

                Ilmarë laughed, but she was cut short by the sudden appearance of a dozen rubber bats, descending with a pre-recorded cacophony of shrieks from the shadowed ceiling. 

 

                “The _fuck_!” Gothmog gasped, jumping. 

 

                “They’re just bats,” Thuringwethil said, reaching out to push one back with the tip of her manicured finger.

 

                “You’re no fun at shit like this,” Gothmog complained.

 

                “We can’t all lose our shit every time something jumps out at us,” she countered.

 

                “It’s a haunted house,” Gothmog said.  “That’s the point.”

 

                “Maybe they should make it scarier.”

 

                “We’re doing our best, here,” said a rather put-out-looking vampire, stepping out from the doorway ahead of them.

 

                “Don’t mind her,” Gothmog said, patting the vampire on the shoulder.  “She deals with psychopaths all day.  It takes a little more effort to scare her.”

 

                “I don’t think they’re psychopaths,” Thuringwethil said, following Gothmog through the doorway.  “Sociopaths, maybe, but—”

 

                “Ha!” shouted a familiar voice, coming at them through the doorway ahead.  Gothmog shouted, startled, but Thuringwethil merely rolled her eyes. 

 

                “Get lost, dummy?” she asked.

 

                “Damn,” Melkor said, crossing his arms.  “I thought you were Mairon.”

 

                “Um,” said Thuringwethil, gesturing at herself and looking incredulous.  “Really?”

 

                “I heard your voices,” Melkor said, glaring at her.  “I thought he was with you.”

 

                “Nope,” said Gothmog.  “Thil said you guys split up.”

 

                “We did,” said Melkor, “but I made it though to the end and didn’t find him.”

 

                “He must still be in here somewhere.”

 

                “Let’s go through,” Thuringwethil said.  “I’m sure he just didn’t make it through yet.”

 

                “I waited for like, five minutes,” Melkor said.  “He wasn’t there.”

 

                “Your version of five minutes, or five actual minutes?”

 

                “Don’t be a dick.”

 

                “He’s in here somewhere,” Gothmog said.  “Let’s just go through.”

 

                “But I’ve been through here,” Melkor said, insistent.  “He’s not down here.”

 

                “Let’s go back to where you split up,” Ilmarë said.  “If he’s not this way, he has to be that way.”

 

                “Good idea,” Melkor said.  “Come on.”

 

                “That’ll take forever,” Thuringwethil said.  “He was probably just a little behind you.  He’s probably waiting for us at the end.”

 

                “I told you,” Melkor said.  “He wasn’t there.  I waited.”

 

                “Probably a whole thirty seconds,” she muttered.

 

                “Why don’t you go find him then?”

 

                “Maybe I will.”

 

                “Ten bucks says I find him before you do.”

 

                “Make it a hundred.”

 

                “Fine.”

 

                “Fine.”

 

                Thuringwethil took off running for the exit, and Melkor sprinted away, back the way they had come.

 

                “Well,” said Ilmarë into the silence that remained.  “That’s one way to do it.”

 

                “No one gets a rise out of Thuringwethil like Melkor,” Gothmog said, ambling off after Thuringwethil.  Ilmarë followed him.  “Although,” Gothmog continued, “in her defense, no one gets a rise out of anyone quite like Melkor.”

 

                “So I’ve heard,” said Ilmarë.

 

                “I thought you didn’t listen to hearsay.”

 

                “Oh, I listen,” she said.  “I just try not to judge.”

 

                “Lucky for us,” Gothmog said, grinning.

 

                “You’re not half as bad as the rumors make you out to be.”

 

                “Especially Thil,” he said.  “She’s a great girl.”

 

                “She is,” Ilmarë agreed.

 

                They walked on in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of a pre-recorded spooky Halloween sounds CD playing over the speakers.  Screams sounded in the distance, though none of them sounded familiar.  “Hey, can I ask you something?” said Gothmog suddenly.

 

                “Sure,” said Ilmarë. 

 

                “You and Thil,” he said.  “Are you—”

 

                “Ha!” shouted Melkor, looming suddenly around a corner.  Gothmog jumped, shouting profanities, throwing an arm out to stop Ilmarë.

 

                “Asshole,” he said, glaring at Melkor.

 

                “I was hoping you were Mairon,” said Melkor, disappointed.

 

                “You didn’t find him?”

 

                “No,” said Melkor, shaking his head.  “He wasn’t anywhere back down the split.”

 

                “He wasn’t this way either,” said Thuringwethil, who was leaning unnoticed by the door.

 

                “Then he has to be farther on,” Gothmog said.

 

                “There is no farther on,” Melkor said, pointing at the door beside Thuringwethil.  “That’s the exit.”

 

                “He has to be somewhere,” Thuringwethil said.

 

                “He’s not here,” Melkor said stubbornly.  “We looked everywhere.”

 

                “Apparently not well enough.”

 

                “Maybe he’s outside,” Ilmarë said.

 

                “Me first,” Melkor said, dashing for the door.  He burst outside, looking around excitedly, and then turned back toward them.  “Nope,” he said, disappointed.  “Not here either.”

 

                They followed him out into the cool, evening air and looked around.  They were standing at the top of a fenced-in ramp.  It was completely dark now, save for the lamp at the end of the ramp and the lighted sign that pointed them back toward the parking lot.

 

                “Where could he be?” Gothmog asked, craning his neck to look around again.

 

                “He has to be inside somewhere,” Thuringwethil said.

 

                “We looked,” Melkor said, annoyed. 

 

                “Maybe he went back,” Gothmog said.

 

                “Why would he go back?  The exit’s right here.”

 

                “Yeah, but—”

 

                “Maybe we missed him,” Thuringwethil said.

 

                “This place is tiny,” Melkor said, “and we went through both ways.  We couldn’t have missed him.”

 

                “Okay,” Thuringwethil said.  “Calm down.”

 

                “I’m calm,” Melkor snapped.  “I just want to know where the fuck he is.”

 

                “This is a haunted house,” she said, “and he’s an adult.  Wherever he is, he’s fine.”

 

                “Yeah, but—”

               

                “Should we go find someone who works here?” Gothmog suggested.  “Maybe they can help us.”

 

                “How?”

 

                “I don’t know,” Gothmog said.  “Call him or something.”

 

                “Oh, wait,” Melkor said, smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand.  “Duh.”  He dug his phone from his pocket and leaned back against the railing, tapping at the screen of his phone until he found Mairon’s number.  “Okay,” he said.  “It’s ringing.”

 

                Someone grabbed suddenly at Melkor’s ankles, making him start violently, scream, and drop his phone.  The other three on the platform jumped, startled, looking around for the source of his fright.  “Son of a bitch,” Melkor said, whirling around.  “Who—”

 

                Mairon stepped back from the base of the platform, laughing so hard he wheezed, leaning over to rest his hands on his knees.  “Son of a bitch,” Melkor said again, bending quickly to retrieve his phone before barreling down the ramp.

 

                “You owe me twenty bucks,” Mairon called, running the other way.

 

                “Come back here and I’ll give it to you,” Melkor yelled, chasing after him.

 

                Behind them, on the platform, Gothmog started to laugh.  After a moment, Ilmarë joined him.  Thuringwethil rolled her eyes but gave a grudging smile, shaking her head.  “Come on,” she said, starting down the ramp.  “We better catch up to them before someone gets hurt.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/) !


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